New Direction
by Old English D
Summary: Ramble about Della's early days in the employ of our favorite criminal attorney.  Set prior to "More Than Anything".
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

The process of writing briefs bored the living daylights out of Perry Mason. Had he fully understood the mind-numbing drudgery of the process during his education, he might not have become a lawyer.

But since his new secretary Della Street had assumed the responsibility of organizing his notes and pulling cited volumes from the law library, he found himself oddly energized. The brief he was working on, the fifth in three weeks, was nearly ready to dictate.

Dictation, once another abhorred chore, was becoming his favorite pastime, primarily because it afforded him the opportunity to admire Della Street's competent efficiency up close, among other things that deserved to be admired.

At this point, nearly five weeks into her employment, Della had competently dispensed with an appalling amount of documentation oversights in the chaos left behind by her predecessor. She had quickly assessed the backlog, drawn up a chart, and generally made a nuisance of herself until each task was completed. There were two briefs being typed by Mary and Alice and the one he was working on currently should be completed by Thursday, freeing him up for a social obligation on Friday. Relieving stress in his personal life would allow him to fccus more on Della - on the running of his practice, that is.

Perry was seated at his desk, deeply engrossed in one of several volumes Della had pulled from the law library. He finished writing notes on a particular point and reached for a cigarette from the humidor. After lighting it and taking a deep drag, he pulled a neatly organized client file in front of him and had just begun writing additional notes on a yellow legal pad when the connecting door between his office and Della's was flung open and she burst into the room.

"Mr. Mason!" She was slightly breathless and unusually unkempt, curls in disarray and a smudge of dust across one cheekbone. She was holding a woman's shoe in her left hand.

He jumped a bit at her noisy entrance, and then settled back in his chair to observe her through the trailing smoke of his cigarette. "Miss Street," he drawled. Normally calm, level-headed, logical, and supremely efficient, Della had on occasion displayed a fair-minded temper that he found utterly charming. When irked, she became transformed, eyes snapping, piercing words thrown at him as direct challenges that he gleefully volleyed.

"Did you know that Gertie hasn't had a vacation in a year?" With the back of the hand that held the shoe she pushed at a curl that had fallen over one eye. "And that Mary and Alice both have taken ten days each paid vacation in the past six months? Not only that, they refuse to help me cover the switchboard so Gertie can have a break. That poor girl could wind up in the hospital with a burst bladder." She paused to take a huge breath, and continued more calmly. "You can't run a professional office with such disparity among the employees. I'll give you a pass on the backlog of paperwork, but how could you be so blindly uncaring toward your staff?"

Perry smiled with amusement at his secretary. It was indeed deplorable that Gertie's good nature had been abused, but he enjoyed when Della pointed out his myriad shortcomings and couldn't help but smile. Preoccupied with personal problems, he had handed over control of his practice to a secretary who disguised her incompetency with elaborately constructed lies and assurances that everything was "just fine", until it became painfully, embarrassingly clear that things definitely weren't fine. Having lost sight of the fact that it was his name alone on the office door, it was time he took control again to salvage his once thriving practice. Enter capable, hard-working, lovely Della Street, willing to tackle the most onerous tasks in an effort to right his perilously off-kilter legal firm. She was gold, a priceless treasure he was determined to keep as comfortable and as satisfied in this position as possible.

"What do you propose we do to rectify the situation, Miss Street?"

She was becoming accustomed to receiving questions to her questions, and had an answer at the ready. "You could make it official that the typists and Gertie report directly to me."

Perry nodded his head in agreement. "Done. And I'll throw in supervisory authority over Jackson as well as a bonus. I've been considering expanding your responsibilities, so your willingness to take on the administrative staff is welcome." In truth, he had decided to request that she begin to attend court with him, but he reluctantly admitted that could wait. Acting on advice he now recognized as being given with suspect intentions, he had ignored the administrative staff, holding them at great distance, unforgiving in his criticism and stingy with his praise.

Della shifted from one foot to another, her indignation replaced by the aura of calm efficiency that had attracted him to her the moment she entered his office for an interview. Her calmness had played a large part in his decision to hire her. He hadn't experienced calm in too many years to count. He continued to regard her silently for quite some time before she cleared her throat.

"All right. I'll set a staff meeting for tomorrow morning first thing," she announced and turned to leave, affording him quite a lovely view of her backside.

"Della," he called, "is there anything else you'd like to talk to me about?"

She looked at him over her shoulder from the doorway. "Not at the moment, Mr. Mason. I'd planned to leave you alone with the brief since you have no more appointments today. We can go over the mail that requires your personal attention tomorrow after the staff meeting and before your first appointment."

"Are you sure you have nothing else for me, Della?"

She looked a tad exasperated. "I'm quite sure, Mr. Mason."

He sat forward and stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray. "You have a shoe in your hand," he pointed out.

She had totally forgotten about the shoe! She walked back into the office. "I certainly do," she confirmed with a smile. "The credenza in my office was crooked to the wall, so I moved it away and this fell to the floor." She placed an expensive black satin pump with a crystal-encrusted heel on top of an open law book on his desk. "Gertie wants me to look behind all the furniture immediately for the mate."

Perry studied the shoe with narrowed eyes. "It is quite a nice shoe, and looks brand-new. You might want to find the mate for yourself."

She shook her head. "Wrong size for me," she said. "I told Gertie we should contact Miss Getty, but no one has her telephone number and she's not in the directory. I can't imagine why she hasn't discovered it's gone and contacted us."

Perry picked up the shoe and turned it over slowly in his hands. "Miss Getty left rather abruptly and not in the most amicable of circumstances," he explained. "I'll keep it in case she does call." He leaned down, opened the bottom drawer of his desk and dropped the shoe in. He then sat back in his chair and smiled at Della. "Let me know if you plan to move furniture again."

"No more furniture moving today, despite Gertie's pleading. But I will be talking to the building manager about the cleaning woman. It was filthy behind the credenza."

"Ah, that explains the smudge of dust on your face."

"I'm sure I'm a mess," she agreed with a chuckle, reaching up and fluffing her hair away from her neck with long, slender fingers.

He liked that she laughed easily and kept vanity in check. Most women would have been mortified to be told by a man they had a smudge of dirt on their face. He found himself smiling at her, comfortably pleased with her unaffected mien.

"Do you want me to stay and help with anything on the brief?" She offered.

"No, I've got it handled for now. If you have a free moment, why don't you hammer out an agenda for tomorrow's meeting."

She flashed a smile that told him an agenda was already half completed, and exited through the connecting door. He continued to stare at the door long after it clicked shut. Finally, with a great sigh, he reached down and retrieved the crystal-encrusted pump from his bottom drawer and placed it on top of the open client file in front of him. He pulled his desk phone over and dialed a number. On the third ring his call was picked up at the other end.

"Hi," he said, his eyes dark and brooding as they rested on the shoe. "It's me. Guess what turned up today?"

* * *

><p>Perry Mason's role in the staff meeting at 9:15 the next morning was brief. He announced that Della Street had complete administrative authority effective immediately, then excused himself from the meeting at 9:20 after a few words of appreciation and encouragement, leaving Della to address the remainder of the agenda with her wide-eyed staff. He needed to get in a few minutes on the brief before his first appointment at 10:30, and he knew Della was determined to have him dictate responses to correspondence too long ignored. If he could clarify one point of the case before she wrapped up the meeting and entered his office with today's dictation, it would go a long way toward dispelling the out of control feeling that had been with him since awakening entangled in scented satin sheets.<p>

The previous evening had not been enjoyable, scented satin sheets aside. Too much alcohol, too many cigarettes, too much arguing, not enough sleep. He hoped Della's sharp eyes wouldn't catch the fact he was wearing the same suit as yesterday. His lack of grooming was a small price to pay for peace of mind that the distractions of the past few months would loosen their perfectly manicured grasp on his body, mind, and soul.

He detoured to the washroom off his private office to splash cold water on his face, slap on cologne, and comb his hair. Feeling a bit more suitable to face the day, he dropped into his big leather chair and immediately began writing notes. He was able to complete his thoughts on the salient case point and move on to the next before Della entered from her office with a cup and saucer in one hand, stenographic notebook and a stack of letters in the other, a pencil held sideways in her mouth. She crossed to his desk with sinuous grace, and placed the cup and saucer before him. Removing the pencil from between her teeth, she smiled.

"No rest for the wicked," she announced.

Perry took a welcome sip of coffee. Perfect as usual. "Referring to me or to you?"

Her face held an expression of utter innocence as she arched one sublime eyebrow at him. "I'm not the one wearing the same suit of clothes as yesterday," she replied airily, slapping a stack of five letters in front of him before circling the enormous desk and taking her seat.

How bold of her! "Nooooo, you aren't," he agreed slowly. "May I present my defense?" Despite the impudence, he was actually perversely glad she had noticed.

She carefully closed her notebook and leaned back in her chair. "Is it necessary to put on a defense, Mr. Mason?"

He was suddenly too aware of her, of her impeccable turn-out and the wonderful light scent of her perfume, of the way her curls fell about her face and rested upon her shoulders. She wore a long straight skirt today, periwinkle blue and grey tweed paired with a silver blouse. Grey open-toed pumps afforded him a tantalizing peek at coral toenails. Small brushed silver discs dangling from her ears were her only jewelry. He felt disheveled and guilty, like a naughty teenager caught sneaking back into the house at dawn after a night of adolescent debauchery.

He reached for a cigarette from the humidor and lit it. Leaning back in his chair to mimic her posture, he smiled lazily. "Due to the relative newness of our working relationship, Miss Street, I do feel compelled to defend, but not to explain, my appearance." After taking only two small drags on the cigarette he stubbed it out. "As you well know, I've allowed my personal behavior to negatively impact my professional obligations for far too long. Last night I dealt with a certain circumstance that will no longer interfere with this practice."

She leveled frank hazel eyes at him. "Neither defense nor explanation was required."

Her gaze didn't waver as he regarded her with level-lidded appraisal. "Do me a favor, Della, and always be this forthright. I need a good kick in the pants every now and then, and I think you have the ability – not to mention the willingness – to do it."

"As long as you promise to be equally forthright about my job performance and kick me in the pants if I need it."

Perry blinked, then grinned. "I think, Miss Street, we are going to have some kind of fun."

The telephone on his desk rang shrilly. Della scooped the receiver to her ear. "Yes, Gertie? That's fine, I'll be out in just a moment." She dropped the receiver back into the cradle. "Well, you've been given a reprieve from the mail. Your 10:30 has arrived early and is insisting upon seeing you immediately." She started to rise, but Perry waved her down.

"I'll greet Mr. Phillips myself. He can be rather testy. Why don't you spiff up the desk and stick around to take notes." He pushed himself up from his chair and strode across the office.

Della stood and moved behind his abandoned chair. When the door clicked behind him, she quickly bent and yanked open the bottom drawer of his desk.

The crystal-encrusted shoe was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Three weeks, five briefs, four arraignment hearings, six depositions, one successfully dismissed preliminary hearing, and one weekend trip to Denver after assuring Della that his personal life would no longer intrude upon his professional obligations, Perry Mason was enjoying time to himself by reading the sports page between client appointments, feet propped on the edge of his desk, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was part-way through the American League baseball box scores when the unlisted phone on his desk rang. Only three people had that number. One was information gathering in Brentwood. One was handling a meltdown in the typing room. One was preparing to move to Denver.

He lifted the receiver and placed it to his ear. "Mason," he barked.

"_**Goodness **_darling, is that any way to answer the phone?" Laura Cavanagh's clipped, accented voice scolded him.

Perry grimaced. "I'm sorry, Laura," he said stiffly. "I was hoping you were Paul Drake."

"_**Really**_, Perry! You don't have to _**insult **_me."

"I guess that didn't come out exactly right," he admitted contritely. He passed a hand over his eyes, the good mood of those few spare moments with the sports page evaporated. "What's up, Laura? I have a client due in ten minutes."

"And who has _**this**_ paragon of society done away with? A cheating wife? A rich uncle? " The edge of contempt in her voice was unmistakable. "Perry, darling, I'll _**never**_ understand why you insist upon dealing with common criminals."

Perry sighed audibly, not willing to add fuel to that constant argument. "Laura, I'm busy. Just tell me what's on your mind." He hadn't found out yet if the Tigers had won.

"I wanted to hear your voice," she said. "I've had a bad day."

"Having second thoughts about Denver?" He softened and lightened his tone, a bit guilty that he would rather read baseball box scores than talk to Laura, the woman in his life. Their trip to Denver the previous weekend to find an apartment for her hadn't been a complete disaster, but close enough that they hadn't seen each other in four days, until last night for dinner during which the same arguments had been paraded out and dissected _ad nauseam:_ Their opposing views on the law, on where the future of law resided, on where their future resided, culminating in unbridled lovemaking that left Laura smiling contentedly in her sleep and Perry wide awake with a melancholic emptiness.

"Nothing of the sort," she replied archly. "The firm partners couldn't be more supportive or anxious for me to get started. I wrapped up most of the loose ends today with pending negotiations." Perry heard the familiar annoyed staccato tapping of her pen against a hard surface.

Perry sighed again. "Okay, Laura, which is it: everything fine or did you have a bad day?"

"Why are you being so beastly?"

Years of companionship and intimacy with this woman did nothing to quell the desire to hang up on her. "I told you, I have a client due in a few minutes." He ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

"One would think you weren't glad to hear from me."

He resisted the urge to sigh yet again. "All right, Laura, I'm listening. Tell me about your bad day." He wasn't going to touch on whether or not he was glad to hear from her.

"Elsie announced this morning that she's changed her mind about moving to Denver."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Laura. Elsie's been your secretary for a long time. What reason did she give?" This was dangerous territory. He knew it. And he knew she knew it.

Laura let out a little huff. "She decided it was simply too difficult to leave her home and her family. Something about sickly parents and a sister who suddenly can't take care of them herself. I feel so betrayed. I pulled that woman from the steno pool and gave her the opportunity of a lifetime, and she stabs me in the back at the last minute."

Perry glanced at his watch. His client should be there any moment. "Laura, I'm sorry about Elsie, but it's almost time for my appointment."

"I was hoping to hit the ground running once I got to Denver, but now I have to find the time to break in a new secretary," Laura lamented. "Elsie was supposed to be my support system so I wouldn't feel so alone."

Static crackling in the phone line stretched on for some seconds. Perry gazed longingly at the partially read sports section spread before him on the desk. "Laura, I'll call you later. We'll talk more about Elsie and…things. My client …"

"Perry, this is very distressing to me," she interrupted in a perturbed voice. "Can't your client wait a _**few**_ _**minutes **_so you can give me some of your valuable time?"

His voice was harsh and commanding as he snapped into the phone. "I'm hanging up, Laura. I'll call you tonight."

Perry dropped the receiver into the cradle and glanced up just as the connecting door to Della's office closed softly. He had insisted that she never knock before entering his office unless he was conferring with a client, assuring her that he had nothing to hide. However, he hadn't imagined Laura would call during office hours or that he would lose his temper with her.

He was certain Della wouldn't eavesdrop. She had made it very clear she didn't need to be as informed about his private life as with his professional, and kept pretty much to herself in kind. He knew she had an aunt living somewhere south of L.A., met with girlfriends for dinner and a show once a month, and according to an envious Gertie, usually had a date on Friday night. She took her coffee with cream and sugar just like him, and needed to eat regularly or she got cranky. He suspected she was younger than she'd like him to think. And she possessed the most beautiful smile ever bestowed upon a woman.

He smiled. He realized thinking about Della never failed to make him smile.

Glancing at his watch again, he heaved himself from his chair and crossed to the connecting door. Just as he was reaching for the door handle, it opened and banged against his foot. He yelped.

Della peeked her head around the edge of door. "Gosh, I'm sorry Mr. Mason," she exclaimed. "Maybe I should knock before coming in from now on."

She had definitely heard part of his conversation with Laura. He waved her into the office. "I'm more surprised than harmed."

He affected an impressive limp and headed back to his desk, Della on his heels. He reseated himself in his chair and looked up at her with a grimace.

"Faker," she accused, crossing her arms and leaning her slim hip against the desk.

"I can see I won't be able to put anything over on you."

"You can try. You'll fail."

He chuckled. "Is Ronald Avery here?"

She shook her head. "Mrs. Avery called a few minutes ago. Mr. Avery is under the care of a physician for stress. Mr. Avery is, and I quote, "snoring like a locomotive," after said physician shot him full of tranquilizer."

"Did you reschedule?" He lifted the lid from the humidor and proffered a cigarette to her. She shook her head again.

"No reschedule. I think you'll be speaking with him in jail tomorrow. The doctor was called in when Mr. Avery learned that Wilson Garners was going forward with embezzlement charges. From what his wife says, he broke down completely."

Perry Mason shook his head. "How Garners can think a nervous wreck like Ronald Avery could commit embezzlement is beyond me."

"Maybe Mr. Avery is a nervous wreck because he actually did embezzle the money," she pointed out.

He studied her appraisingly for several seconds. "Being Devil's Advocate or just a brat?" he inquired.

"Merely pointing out possibilities," she replied evenly. "I'd have to meet him personally to form a conclusive opinion."

"Maybe I'll take you with me to the jail if Avery is indeed arrested so you can form that conclusive opinion."

"You haven't accepted a retainer as yet, so you have no obligation to him," she pointed out. "But I'll tell you this, his wife sounds like a steamroller and I wouldn't be surprised if his nervous nature stems from life with _**her**_."

Perry laughed. "You hit the nail on the head, Della. I have met both Mr. and Mrs. Avery, and he is definitely the most overwhelmed man on the face of the planet."

Della smiled. "I'll bet she outweighs him by fifty pounds."

"Closer to a hundred." He chuckled.

She shifted her weight from one foot to another. "I fired Alice," she announced unexpectedly.

"Whoa there! Where did that come from?"

She made a little frowning grimace. "It's been coming for several weeks. Today's fracas was the last straw."

"Well, you're the boss. I'm sure you had ample reason. Ever fired anyone before?"

She shook her head.

"It's not an easy thing to do," he said sympathetically, thinking of his conversation with Laura. "Alice supports a widowed mother, doesn't she?"

"Alice was not at all what she proclaimed," Della said enigmatically. "I'll type up the circumstances for the personnel files."

He looked at her in surprise. "We have personnel files?"

She smiled indulgently at him. "We do now."

"Your capacity for work humbles me," he said in admiration. "I couldn't be more pleased with your performance, Della, and appreciate how much you've accomplished in such a short time."

"It's mostly basic administrative tasks," she demurred, "but I thank you for appreciating my contributions. You may not be so pleased when I tell you that there are three briefs in varying stages of completeness that require your attention. Not to mention that we are now down to one typist."

"Bring in whatever you have for me," he directed. "May was well put the extra time we have to good use."

Della returned moments later with a stack of manila file folders stuffed with double spaced brief drafts, fresh steno notebooks and legal pads, red and blue grease pencils, and her confident, efficient attitude. She made grammatical and sentence structure edits in red while Perry Mason made content edits in blue. They worked in companionable synchronicity, conversation held to a minimum, as they passed stacks of flimsy between them, hours passing, activity outside his internal private office all but unnoticed, the encroaching darkness unheeded until the sun was completely obscured by the surrounding tall buildings of L.A.

"Good Lord, Della," Perry said suddenly. "It's 8:30!"

"No wonder it's so dark in here," she chuckled, rubbing her eyes.

Perry stretched his arms out in front of him. "Well, we can either turn on the light and continue, or we can stop now and get some dinner. My vote is dinner. That's the least I can do for keeping you so late."

She regarded him thoughtfully in the semi-darkness, unable to read anything in his expression. The offer of dinner had sounded casual, a natural extension of the work day. It wouldn't be untoward or unprofessional to dine with her boss, would it? She was very hungry.

It took them a few minutes to straighten the office in preparation for the morning and to ride the elevator to the ground floor, having decided to take a taxi instead of getting Perry's car out of the parking garage, and he quickly flagged one down.

_Luigi's_ was small and tucked on a side street away from downtown L.A. nightlife. Della immediately fell in love with the candlelit ambiance, heavenly aroma of freshly baked bread and the pungent mingling of garlic and oregano. Luigi himself greeted Perry Mason effusively, and then took Della's proffered hand with delighted admiration as Perry introduced her to the rotund Italian. He seated them in a compact booth near the middle of the long, narrow restaurant, apologizing profusely for no vacant booth further toward the back. Della blushed slightly, but used the activity of sliding into the booth and removing her gloves to disguise her moment of discomfit. Luigi clapped his hands and a slender young man with unruly dark hair and huge, frightened brown eyes jumped to his side. The older man slapped the lad on his back resoundingly, nearly knocking him sprawling onto the table.

"Mister Mason, this here is my nephew Gianni," Luigi made the introduction with obvious pride. "Just arrived from Italy two days ago. He'll take very good care of you and Miss." He slapped Gianni on the back again, said something quickly in Italian, and stood beaming while Gianni ducked his head shyly.

"Welcome _Luigi's,_" he said haltingly. "You drink?"

"We drink," Perry confirmed. "A bottle of Tipo Chianti, please Gianni."

"You got it, Chief," Gianni ducked his head again and withdrew to fetch the wine.

Luigi beamed. "Tonight we got _parmigiana_ all kinds. Best ever. Good to see you back, Mister Mason. Nice to meet you, Miss." He bowed and made his way toward to the front of the restaurant, stopping occasionally to speak with other patrons.

Della smiled after him. "Nice man," she commented. "He seems pleased to see you."

Perry nodded. "I used to come here a lot." Laura didn't like _Luigi's_, preferring to dine downtown in supper clubs where there was more activity and less food. Perry hadn't stepped foot in the place for almost six months, ever since Laura's announcement, when his personal life suddenly spun out of control. "It's the best Italian food in the city. I must warn you the portions are huge and you won't ever get enough of the garlic bread."

Gianni returned with a _fiasco _encased bottle of wine, proceeded to expertly open it and pour two glasses. "You eat?"

Perry looked questioningly at Della, who nodded. "I'll order for both of us, Gianni. The calamari is fresh?"

"You betcha, Chief," Gianni nodded vigorously.

Della gave a little strangled cough into her napkin.

"Okay, we'll start with a small plate of fried calamari and marinara. Bring two green salads and house dressing with the calamari. For dinner we'll have an order each of eggplant _parmigiana_ and baked meat spaghetti. Got it?"

Gianni had continued to nod vigorously throughout Perry's order, never writing a thing down on the pad he held. "Got it, Chief," he said, and backed away from the booth.

Perry threw his hands in the air as Della broke into giggles. "Who knows what we'll end up with." He lifted his wine glass. "Here's to crime," he toasted.

Della touched her glass to his and took a sip of the bold wine. "Is that your usual toast?"

"I adopted it when I decided to specialize in criminal law. It might be crass to toast that crime pays, but so far, it's paid well." He grinned.

"Not lately," she said coolly. "Did you know that no client bills had been sent for the past three months?"

"No," he admitted, chagrin and disgust conveyed in that single word. Then he grinned. ""But I noticed you said none _**had**_ been sent.

She didn't want to smile, but couldn't resist his boyish grin. Oh boy, that grin was going to be trouble. "You needn't lose any sleep. Bills went out last week and checks are beginning to come in."

He poured more wine into their glasses. "My accountant thanks you, my poker buddies thank you, and I thank you, Miss Street," he said with reverent solemnity. "I don't know if dinner with the boss is bonus enough for your herculean efforts to right a capsizing ship, but it's the least I can do."

Perry was pleasantly surprised when Gianni appeared at his elbow with a heaping plate of golden fried calamari, two green salads, and a basket of piping hot garlic bread. Della was on her third slice of garlic bread when he again appeared almost magically, laden with an oval platter of eggplant _parmigiana _and a casserole dish dripping with bubbling mozzarella cheese. Perry served helpings of each entrée and watched with amusement as Della took her first bite.

"I told you it was the best," he reminded her.

She opened her eyes, which had closed in pure delight at savoring the eggplant. Usually she preferred steak at restaurants, but this was heavenly. She took a large forkful of baked spaghetti with meat sauce, twirling tendrils of cheese until they broke free and placed the entire glob in her mouth. "This is so good!" she exclaimed, her mouth full of spaghetti.

Perry laughed, immensely pleased by her reaction. He'd had an idea she would be an enthusiastic eater and so had chosen _Luigi's_ for dinner.

They ate heartily, laughing at each other's battles with the stringy mozzarella and draining the bottle of Tipo. Perry had just sent the entrée plates back to the kitchen with Gianni for the remaining portions of their dinner to be wrapped in bowser bags when Luigi waddled up to the booth, hands clasped over his rotund belly.

"'_Scuse_ the interruption, Mister Mason," he said apologetically, "but Mister Drake, is on the _telefonare. _Very important. I say you with Miss, he says still important."

Perry frowned. "Do you have a plug in phone, Luigi, or must I go up front to the desk?"

There was no plug in phone, so Perry excused himself from Della, and followed Luigi to the restaurant's cashier stand. Della took advantage of his absence to repair her lipstick and had just dropped the tube back into her purse when Perry came hurrying back.

"Things are developing with our milquetoast accountant Mr. Avery," he announced grimly. "The night service contacted Paul Drake. Mr. Avery has indeed been detained at Police Headquarters. Not for embezzlement, but for questioning in regard to the murder of Wilson Garners, who was found stabbed to death in his office."

Della gasped audibly. "When did this happen?"

"About an hour ago. Police received a tip from an anonymous female caller."

Perry removed his wallet and threw several bills on the table. Gianni had once again silently materialized, this time holding two red and white bowser bags. "You take, Chief?"

Perry grabbed both proffered bags with one hand. "Paul may appreciate this later," he said as he cupped Della's elbow and piloted her from the restaurant. "Well Della, you might as well come with me so you can form that conclusive opinion of Mr. Avery."

* * *

><p>Perry deposited Della at her apartment shortly before 4:00 a.m., after not only driving her home, but escorting her through the lobby, into the elevator, and directly to her doorstep.<p>

She had been silent for most of the drive from the office, the events of the previous five hours replaying on a continuous loop in her mind: Perry barging into Police Headquarters big as life, demanding in his no-nonsense voice that he be allowed to confer with his client Ronald Avery and the officers on duty scurrying to do his bidding, until Sergeant Holcomb of Homicide appeared and broke up the conference on the basis that Perry was not Ronald Avery's attorney; Perry's jubilantly triumphant grin when Della produced a handwritten retainer receipt for $25.00 she had accepted from Mrs. Avery shortly after their arrival; Perry pounding down the hallway to Paul Drake's office, bowser bags in hand; Perry and Paul speaking in a kind of familial shorthand while Paul barked orders into the phone, reaching for the bags of food with a wink in her direction; Perry's firm hand on her back as he piloted her to his office to type up the writ of _habeas corpus_ for Ronald Avery; Perry pacing his office waiting for a call from Paul Drake, smoking, brows knitted in concentration, occasionally tossing comments her way, which she dutifully recorded in her notebook; Perry's hands on her back again as he assisted her into his big black car, unyielding in his insistence that he drive her home.

It was both too late and too early for coffee or cocktails, so she had no reason to invite him in. She fleetingly, irrationally, entertained the thought of mentioning breakfast, but very quickly decided that would be entirely inappropriate considering the heavenly dinner to which he had already treated her. When he held out his hand for the key, her fingers brushed his, no more than they had many times in the previous weeks. This time she felt an urge to prolong the contact, but instead quickly withdrew her hand and stood silently next to him, observing the tired countenance that would still command any room he entered.

He swung open the door, stepped back, and swept him arm across his body. "You are delivered safely to your abode, Miss Street," he announced. His bloodshot eyes managed to twinkle at her.

She popped a quick curtsy. "I am forever grateful, Mr. Mason," she replied. As she stepped in front of him to enter the apartment, strong fingers closed around her forearm and he pulled her gently around to face him.

"Della," he said seriously, "I want you to get at least six hours of sleep and a proper breakfast before coming into the office. If I see you before noon, I'll be very upset."

She met his suddenly serious eyes with just a bit of defiance, her chin stubbornly tilted upward. "I'm perfectly able to function on a few hours of sleep. If you'll be in the office before noon, Mr. Mason, so will I. I won't be babied."

Perry broke into a ridiculously broad grin. "Have it your way then, Della." His fingers tightened around her arm in a quick squeeze then relinquished their hold. "But I have to insist that you stop calling me Mr. Mason," he said sternly.

"That might be a tough assignment," she replied, and moved past him into the apartment.

"Good night, Della," he said softly. "I hope you enjoyed dinner as much as I did."

She waved a gloved hand at him. "You betcha, Chief," she replied, and closed the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Della breezed into the office shortly before 10:30, fresh as that proverbial daisy in a full-skirted pale blue cotton shirtwaist dress and navy peep toe pumps. Make-up flawless, sections of her hair pulled up and secured at the top of her head with a long, curved blue Bakelite barrette, she showed no signs of a nearly sleepless night. Exhilarated by her first encounter with Perry Mason in action, she had found it impossible to stay in one position long enough to fall asleep.

Gertie was on the phone having an animatedly exasperated conversation with someone, and a painfully thin woman approximately sixty years old with dull grey wispy hair was seated in one of the straight-backed waiting room chairs. She jumped up nervously as Della advanced into the outer office.

"Are you Miss Street?" Her voice was as thin as her hair. "Are you the one who fired my daughter Alice?"

Della glanced over at Gertie, who was handling yet another incoming call and looking back at her with huge, concerned eyes.

"I am Miss Street," she confirmed formally. "And you are?"

"I'm Alice's mother, Margaret Singleton," the thin woman replied. "You should be ashamed of yourself for what you did, firing my Alice. Just who do you think you are? My Alice has worked here longer than you. She ran this office just fine before you showed up. How do you think you had the right to fire her?"

"Mrs. Singleton, I assure you that Alice was given every opportunity to keep her job," Della replied firmly. "When her performance didn't improve, I had no choice but to fire her." It wasn't the entire truth, but professionalism dictated it be the proper explanation.

The older woman peered at Della from behind thick-lensed spectacles, watery eyes a nondescript color similar to her hair color. "I want to speak to your boss. He'll want to know what you did to sabotage my Alice so you could fire her."

"Mrs. Singleton, I did nothing to Alice. Alice did it to herself. Mr. Mason is very busy and I manage the administrative staff for him. You may write a letter with your concerns, and I promise Mr. Mason will personally read it."

Margaret Singleton crossed stick-like arms across her flat chest. "I'm not budging until Mr. Mason comes out here, looks me in the eye and tells me why he let someone like you fire my Alice. She practically ran this office. Mr. Mason told her all the time what a good worker she was and how he appreciated all she did to help him."

Della wanted to sigh loudly. If only she could tell Margaret Singleton the truth, how Alice and Jeanne Getty had ravaged Perry Mason's practice by funneling money and supplies into a fake temp agency, broken rules of confidentiality by removing documents from the office and parceling out work to friends, in effect double-billing for Alice's hours. How they had shamelessly taken advantage of his personal distractions for months for their own selfish purposes.

"Mrs. Singleton," Della began with calm authority, "Mr. Mason is not yet in the office. He's handling a very important matter for a client and will have no time to see you. I suggest again that you write a letter." She took hold of the woman's bony elbow and escorted her to the outer office door. "I wish things had turned out differently with Alice, Mrs. Spencer, but please know that I had no recourse but to let her go."

Mrs. Singleton jerked her elbow from Della's grasp and squinted at her. "You haven't heard the last from me, Miss High-and-Mighty Secretary. You don't know who you're dealing with." She yanked open the door and huffed through, slamming it loudly behind her.

Gertie let out an exclamation. "What a pain! I'm sorry Della, but she just wouldn't go away. I told her to write a letter just like you did, but she insisted on waiting to talk to you personally."

Della smiled at Gertie. "I'm sure you did everything you could, Gertie. I don't think Mrs. Singleton is in a mood to listen to reason. Any messages?"

Gertie handed Della a small stack of messages and the mail and went over a few things with Della about client appointments. Della was grateful she and Gertie were becoming friends within the realm of the office, and knew she could trust her implicitly. She would never have to confront Gertie about illicit activities at odds with her job.

Della entered the interior office that was her domain, dropped the stack of messages on her desk, stowed her purse in the bottom drawer, and put coffee on to perk. She slipped into Perry Mason's private office with the mail to sort it into her customary three piles. Just as she closed the door behind her, the private door from the corridor burst open and in walked the man himself, hat pushed back on his head jauntily, newspaper tucked under his arm, bulging briefcase in hand. He stopped in surprise at seeing Della.

"Don't tell me you showed up this morning to open the office," he said with an edge of rebuke.

She shook her head. "I just got here myself," she admitted. "I haven't even opened the mail."

Perry swung his briefcase onto his desk and tossed the newspaper on top of it. He grabbed his hat and flung it in Della's direction. She didn't flinch as it sailed past her, glanced off the bust of Blackstone that resided to the side of the door and rolled in a wide arc before coming to a rest upside down at her feet. Della sighed indulgently, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth as she stepped over it and advanced into the room, dropping the pile of mail on his desk.

"You realize if you applied as much energy to the mail as you do to perfecting your hat scaling technique," she observed drolly, "we would be caught up by now."

Perry seated himself in his chair and regarded her solemnly. "Hat scaling is a dying art," he proclaimed, "that I have been tasked with reviving. You wouldn't want an art form to become extinct, would you?" He leaned back in his chair and planted his feet on the edge of his desk. "Are you really going to torture me with mail this morning after I've spent the past two hours comforting a hysterical Ronald Avery and listening to Paul Drake complain about the garlic in Luigi's _parmigiana_?"

"Two hours? Have you even been to bed yet?"

"I slept enough. Judge Atherton agreed to sign the writ at eight-thirty so I took a nap, showered, shaved, and made it with a minute to spare."

Della puckered her forehead in a little frown. "Now I feel guilty for not coming in earlier."

"Nonsense. I'm accustomed to staying up all night and operating on a couple hours of sleep. I told you to get plenty of rest. You have a lot on your plate."

"Your plate isn't exactly empty," she pointed out. "Besides, I like a full plate."

"I noticed," he replied with a grin.

She tried not to smile, but that grin! "I hope you don't think I eat like that all the time," she said with a slight blush of embarrassment. "I'll be having water and a soda cracker for lunch."

"It's refreshing to see a woman actually enjoy her food," he said with feeling. "And I hope you're kidding about the soda cracker."

"Well, maybe I'll have two," she conceded. "Coffee should be ready by now. Would you like some?"

"A cup of coffee would make me almost human," he declared.

Della shook her head as she knelt to retrieve his errant hat just as the door to her office opened a crack and a petite, exceptionally well-dressed woman pushed her way past a protesting Gertie, shoving the door inward with one impeccably gloved hand. The door swung open and connected with the top of Della's head with a _thunk_. She went down hard on her knees, both arms coming up to protect her head as the door banged against her again.

"Perry, what on earth is in front of – oh!" Laura Cavanaugh nearly tripped over Della's kneeling form, recoiling in horror when she realized what the door had struck.

Perry Mason, momentarily stunned by what had unfolded in front of him, pushed his desk chair back with such force it almost became airborne. The chair banged into the credenza behind his desk and tipped over. He was very quickly at Della's side, gripping her arms and pulling her to her feet. "I've got you, Della," he soothed.

Della literally saw stars and heard birds chirping just like in matinee cartoons. No matter how hard she blinked, the stars wouldn't go away. She knew her boss had said something to her, but those blasted birds were chirping so loudly she couldn't make out any distinct words. She unclipped the barrette and gingerly ran her hand over the top of her head, wincing in pain. There was already a bump rising, long and narrow, bisecting her skull. If not for the barrette, she would probably have escaped with less injury. She normally wouldn't have worn a barrette to work, but the previous evening's events and her self-imposed arrival deadline hadn't allowed her much time to dress this morning. Pulling her hair up with the barrette had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Perry was still gripping her arm, holding her steady on slightly wobbly knees. "Are you all right?" he asked anxiously. It sounded inadequate to him, especially as he remembered the glancing blow to his foot the previous day. The edge of the door had struck her full on the top of her head. He should have scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the couch where she could recover her bearings. He should have removed the barrette himself. He should have kissed the top of her head and made it better. Instead he stood ineffectually beside her, unable to do much of anything, acutely aware of the intently curious gaze originating from the doorway.

Laura Cavanaugh clung to the door handle for support, while a stunned Gertie stood behind her, slack jawed. She studied the injured young woman with keen interest. On the tall side, willowy, elegant. Laura wondered who she was. A client? What had Perry called her? Ella? Her clothes were simple, the dress nice but not terribly expensive. Her shoes were quite good, her pearl choker small but real and lustered by age. Her dark hair, released from the barrette, fell about her face and shoulders in soft curls. Laura couldn't see much of her face, but what little she saw was attractive – a high cheekbone, a perfect eyebrow, a pert nose. Maybe her top lip was a bit thin…

She shook her head, suddenly irritated. What on earth had the women been doing on the floor? How was she supposed to have known that by simply opening the door she would cause bodily harm? "I'm terribly sorry," she spoke up with controlled contrite. "I had no idea there was anyone behind the door."

The young woman turned fully toward Laura at the sound of her voice, and regarded her with large, wide-spaced eyes. Those eyes dominated a face that Laura could in all honesty only describe as beautiful. An expression of curiosity flashed in the eyes as they focused on her, and a swift smile played across her lips. "No permanent harm done," she assured the woman, although her head throbbed literally from ear to ear.

The woman who had opened the door was shorter than Della, her suit new and expensive and tailored perfectly to her curvy figure. Her hair was short and pixie-like, which matched her elfin features. Dark eyes were deeply set beneath heavily penciled brows. She was small and delicately feminine, but a palpable aura of strength and command surrounded her, a dichotomy of appearance and personality. Between the larger-than-life presence of her boss and the almost as large presence of the woman in the doorway, combined with an acute tenseness between Perry Mason and the woman, Della felt insignificant and crowded out.

"She was picking up my hat," Perry began by way of explanation. His voice sounded awkward in his ears. "I threw it toward Blackstone and missed."

Laura's dark eyes swung from those of the young woman's to those of Perry Mason. He was still holding Della's arm, standing close to her, but the look that passed between them made him quickly relinquish his grasp and take a step back.

Della felt his withdrawal, felt how the woman made him seem ill at ease and apologetic. Who was she? She turned to her boss. "I'll be fine," she said quietly. "But I think I'd like to take a break if you don't mind."

"By all means, take all the time you need," he replied. "Are you sure you're all right? Maybe you should go see a doctor."

She shook her head. "No, really, I'm fine. I'll just dash to the ladies lounge for a few moments."

Without waiting for introductions, she slid past the petite woman in the doorway, grabbed Gertie by the arm and pulled the stunned receptionist along with her.

Laura moved into the room and pushed the heavy door closed behind her. "Who was _**that**_?"

Perry bent and picked up his hat, plunked it on Blackstone's head and stood back to eyeball it's placement. Laura pursed her lips at him disapprovingly. "That was my secretary," he replied.

"That was _**not **_Jeanne Getty," she pointed out.

"Jeanne Getty is no longer my secretary." Had Miss Getty's first name been Jeanne? "That was Della Street." He turned to face her, hands clasped behind his back, legs spread apart in defense of the assault of words possibly coming his way.

Laura made a small exclamation of affronted exasperation. "You never mentioned anything about a new secretary. How long has she been working for you?"

Hadn't he mentioned Della to her? Gee, he couldn't imagine why he wouldn't have, what with all the tension surrounding Laura's move to Denver, her insistent cajoling to abandon criminal law and join her in the practice of "real" law, and their combustible, exhausting, unsatisfying physical encounters over the past few months. Why would he not have mentioned that he had hired a charming, beautiful new secretary?

He shrugged. "We've had other things to talk about."

"How long has she been working for you, Perry?" Laura asked again as she began pulling off her gloves slowly, one finger at a time. She surveyed the interior of his private office for someplace to sit. Her choices were either an overstuffed leather chair placed squarely in front of his desk or one of two long couches pushed up against the far walls. Neither the chair nor the couches were familiar to her. The exquisite Scandinavian blonde wood chairs she had placed strategically around the room were missing. It suddenly struck her that she had walked past them in the outer office waiting room and tried to remember the last time she had visited his office. It must have been the night she announced her intention to move to Denver, the night she had thrown her new evening pump at him, nearly six months ago.

He shrugged again, despite knowing to the minute how long Della had worked for him. "A couple of months," he said vaguely. He watched her swift appraisal of the new furniture in his office, Della's suggestions, Della's more appropriate, comfortable seating selections, which he had readily agreed to purchase just last week. He could see Laura was miffed he hadn't consulted her about the redecorating, hadn't told her about hiring a new secretary. He could also see how either subject might easily escalate into another discussion about how he was pushing her from his life and felt an almost irresistible urge to bolt from his own office to seek refuge elsewhere. The guilt that washed over him at that moment saddened him. When and how had their relationship become something from which he wished to flee?

Instead of seating herself, Laura merely leaned against the back of the overstuffed leather chair and crossed her arms. "I hope your secretary will be all right," she said with apparent concern, a studied sincerity filling her dark eyes, the technique she used to advantage in contract negotiations. His stiffness and distance pained her. She mustn't allow him to see exactly how perturbed she was and increase that distance. "Please tell her how sorry I am."

He crossed to her with three long strides, pulled her to him and kissed her lightly. She was familiar in his arms. He had loved her a long time. Her intelligence, her success in a male-dominated profession, her curvaceous feminine beauty, her unbridled reaction to his desire, had held his body, mind, and soul captive. To many they were the perfect couple – attractive, sophisticated, always together at the opera, the hottest nightclubs, the trendiest restaurants, myriad Bar Association functions.

The problem was, he detested opera.

And those trendy restaurants never served a decent steak.

Furthermore, Bar Association functions were stupendously boring.

"It wasn't your fault," he said comfortingly. "Just yesterday Della opened the door on my foot. Accidents happen."

Laura frowned into his shirtfront. Jeanne Getty had been in his employ for over a year and he had never called her anything but Miss Getty. Two months into her employ and he was on a first-name basis with this new secretary, Della Street. "Well, please tell her how sorry I am," she repeated.

"I will. What brings you down here anyway?"

"I wanted to make sure you were all right."

"Why wouldn't I be all right?"

She lifted her eyes to his. "I waited until midnight to go to bed," she replied.

Oh Hell. He had forgotten to call her.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Della was slouched down in a booth at the very back of _Clay's Grill_, a cup of hot tea in front of her, an ice bag balanced on the throbbing bump atop her head. Bless Gertie for admitting to working with a hangover one day last week and forgetting to take the ice bag home, and for Clay who had with great solicitude filled it with ice and personally seated her in the secluded booth so she could close her eyes and rest a bit. She refused to give in to a stupid bump on the head, irrationally concluding that if she did it would diminish her in the eyes of her employer while insistently denying that Miss Cavanaugh's haughty assessment of her had anything to do with her stubbornness.

"Well, well, well! The lovely Miss Street all by herself, without that pesky boss of hers hovering around."

Della opened one eye as the owner of that raspy masculine voice slid into the booth seat across from her. "Mr. Drake," she said flatly in greeting.

"You cut me to the quick with your lack of enthusiasm, Beautiful," he pouted elaborately. "What's the matter? Perry's hours taking a toll on you already? Speaking from experience, it takes a minimum of six sleepless nights to figure out how a system to keep pace with him when he's working on a murder case."

Della sighed, removed the ice bag from her head and pulled herself up straighter in the seat. It wouldn't do to be rude to Mr. Mason's private investigator. Besides, she liked Mr. Drake. He was obvious in his admiration for her, outrageously flirtatious, but harmless. She could handle him easily enough, even with a pounding headache.

"Noooo, I'm nursing wounded pride," she admitted ruefully.

Paul Drake dragged her cup of tea across the table and took a big gulp. "I know. This isn't a chance meeting. I stopped by to see Perry a few minutes ago and Gertie filled me in on what happened. So you've met Laura Cavanaugh."

"Not officially. I pretty much ran from the office before we could be introduced. Who is Laura Cavanaugh?"

Paul took another gulp of tea. "Laura is Perry's … lady friend. She's a pill."

A jumble of thoughts coursed through her pain-addled brain, not the least of which was that she had just encountered the person responsible for the miserable state of her boss's practice, not to mention his psyche, and had run away like a shamed schoolgirl. "Come now, Mr. Drake," she chided. "I really don't think this is a proper conversation for two of Mr. Mason's associates to be having."

"You may as well hear everything from an objective source," he enjoined. "Frankly, I'm surprised you haven't met her yet."

Della thought back to a conversation several weeks ago. "Last night I dealt with a certain circumstance that will no longer interfere with this practice," he'd told her. Had that certain circumstance decided not to be dealt with?

She regarded the debonair detective with a sardonic smile. "Mr. Mason and I don't gossip about our personal lives with one another. And I hardly think you qualify as an objective source, Mr. Drake."

He wagged his finger at her. "If you don't stop with that "Mr. Drake" stuff, I'll start double charging Perry for my services."

"If that's the case, Mr. Drake, then it's been a pleasure working with you. We'll begin interviewing private investigators tomorrow." Her eyes sparkled through the throbbing pain.

Paul Drake regarded her with admiration. "You probably would do just that," he admitted with a flashing grin. Not as irresistible as Mr. Mason's but infectious enough that she cracked a tiny smile. "However, you will quickly realize that I cannot be replaced and will be on my doorstep sobbing my name day after tomorrow."

Her tiny smile became a soft chuckle that sent shock waves through her aching head. She moaned and placed the ice bag atop her head once again.

Paul Drake patted her hand sympathetically. "You should swallow whatever pride it is keeping you here and go home. Trust me. You don't want to deal with Laura Cavanaugh unless you're at the top of your game."

"You make her sound like a complete harridan. Surely if Mr. Mason is involved with her she must have many good qualities," she observed diplomatically. She certainly had good taste in shoes.

"She is attractive," Paul admitted grudgingly. "And she comes from tons of old money. She's intelligent and has a reputation as a good negotiator. Beyond that, she's a pill."

Della hated herself for doing it, but she chuckled again. "I take it she doesn't particularly care for you?"

"Laura Cavanaugh doesn't particularly care for anyone but herself and Perry," Paul replied with a snort. "She has this grandiose idea of them partnering in some stuffy law firm and living happily ever after. Expects him to shut down his practice and follow her to Denver. They've been fighting for months, ever since she accepted a full partnership in some venerable firm that's been around since the middle ages. She didn't even discuss it with him before accepting, just assumed he'd toddle along after her. Laura doesn't take rejection well and has made his life a walking nightmare. I don't expect she'll much like the fact he hired such a lovely new secretary just as she's headed to Denver."

"You certainly know a lot about the situation."

Paul lit a cigarette, and laughed as he blew out the match. "I am a detective," he reminded her. In response to her dramatically skeptical expression he continued with a grin. "Perry drinks. And when he drinks, he talks. I happen to be a frequent drinking partner. "

"I'll bet you are," she agreed drolly. "And I'll bet those drinks show up on your expense account disguised as automobile mileage."

While she appreciated insight into the circumstances surrounding the calamitous condition of Mr. Mason's practice, Paul Drake may have imparted a bit too much for her comfort, and did so without the benefit of alcohol as far as she could determine. What if Mr. Mason did decide to follow Miss Cavanaugh to Denver? Where would that leave her? She loved this job, more than any other job she'd ever had. Every day was a challenge, and she very much enjoyed working with Mr. Mason. He respected her abilities and appreciated her efforts. He had begun using her as his sounding board, inviting her opinion on matters of great importance attached to his cases. She didn't know if she could bear to work out of a steno pool again, if she could tolerate the subjugation of her skills, her femininity, her personality, after experiencing the absolute trust Mr. Mason had shown her.

On a personal level, she definitely liked him. He was imposing in looks and manner, prone to frowning concentration, but quick with mischievous comment that could quickly diffuse his implacable expressions. Their conversations were easy, informal, honest, and they shared genuine laughs readily. It was disconcerting to realize she was as disappointed personally as professionally that there was a chance he would choose to follow Miss Cavanaugh to Denver.

"I hope I didn't make your headache worse," Paul Drake said as he ground out his cigarette in the ashtray and slid from the booth. "You've been good for Perry. I've seen a tremendous change in him in the past few weeks, and I know you only had everything to do with it. I thought you deserved to know what was going on."

"I appreciate your concern," she replied with genuine gratitude, "and thank you for the insight."

"You're welcome. 'Bye, Beautiful." He pitched a little salute in her direction and turned to leave the restaurant.

She decided there was no time to search for another detective agency. "'Bye, Paul," she called after him.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Following her conversation with Paul Drake, Della took the elevator back up to the ninth floor where Gertie greeted her with surprised concern.

"Gosh, Della, I can't believe you're walking around!" she gushed. "I'd still be flat out on the floor sobbing if that door had hit me. Are you going home? You should go home and rest."

Della smiled wanly. Her head still hurt, but two aspirins and forty-five minutes under the ice bag had reduced the throbbing to a manageable level. In the elevator she had pulled her flattened, damp hair back and clipped it with the Bakelite barrette. Miss Cavanaugh would not approve, but she couldn't worry about that, and chastised herself for even having such a thought. She had work to do, whether or not she wore a barrette in her hair. "No, I'm not going home. There is too much to do. It doesn't really hurt that much anymore, thanks to your ice bag."

"I'm just so glad I kept forgetting to take it home," Gertie said earnestly. "You should keep it for the rest of the day and if you don't have one at home, you should take it."

Della's wan smile brightened. "Thank you, Gertie. I think I will. Is Miss Cavanaugh still in Mr. Mason's office?"

Gertie shook her very blonde head. "No, Mr. Mason and Miss Cavanaugh left shortly after you went down to Clay's. Mr. Mason said he'd be back before the witness arrives for the deposition in the car accident case."

Oddly deflated by this bit of news, Della entered her office, seated herself at her desk and took a deep breath. Arriving this morning late and then hiding at _Clay's_ had put her seriously off-schedule. She had intended to handle a bit of the typing chores to ease Mary's load, but with a deposition in less than fifteen minutes, a luncheon meeting with opposing counsel in the automobile accident liability suit at one – for which she'd neglected to order sandwiches while at Clay's - and client appointments at three and four, she was feeling a mite out of control. All she had done up to this point to straighten out Mr. Mason's practice was attributable to sound business procedures known to every business school graduate, carried out with simple efficiency and persistence. Today felt like her first real test, and she was in peril of failing.

Mr. Mason had not returned by the time the witness to be deposed arrived, and she had to force Jackson to vacate the law library so she could settle him comfortably to wait. She placed the office coffee service on the table, assured the witness that Mr. Mason would be there momentarily, and hastily withdrew from the room to call Clay's for an emergency sandwich tray to be delivered no later than twelve forty-five. She had just hung up the telephone when Mr. Mason entered her office from the outer reception office. The urge to snap "where have you been" was difficult to quash as she quickly assessed his disheveled appearance.

Before he could say anything, she shoved a pasteboard file at him and bit out, "Take this, straighten your tie, and smooth down your hair. The witness in Mr. Simpson's accident case is waiting for you in the law library."

Silently, obediently, Perry Mason tucked the file under his arm, fixed his tie, and ran his hands through his hair. Angry at himself for not taking the time to pay closer attention to the condition of his attire after yet another soul-scorching encounter with Laura, he had no words of defense to offer Della this time. Painfully aware that his resolve to not let his personal life disrupt his professional life had barely passed the twenty-four hour mark, he was almost meek as he opened the law library door and allowed his secretary to precede him into the room.

The deposition wrapped up just prior to twelve forty-five, and as Della was arranging the food on the round conference table in Mr. Mason's office, the man himself was showing the witness out through the private door so he would not encounter opposing counsel. Preparations for the meeting completed to her satisfaction, Della sailed past her boss without a glance and closed the door behind her with a definite bang.

Perry Mason sank into his chair and lowered his chin to his chest, disgusted with himself. He had assured Della his personal life wouldn't interfere with business, but his greatest weakness, Laura's appetite for him, had taken control yet again. Desperate to find his way back to loving her, to feeling anything but the enormous emptiness that resided in his heart, he had for months submitted to her will, unable to deny the frenzied insistence of her body. What had been intended as a short, casual talk in her car had quickly devolved into hurtful, angry words and the more he protested, the more aggressive she became. Bestirred by her unusually public display, he managed to stop himself before things went too far, but just barely. Only after promising to pick her up for an early dinner and a night on the town the next night was he able to disentangle himself from the cage of her arms and head back up to his office.

Della barely spoke to him the remainder of the day, her silence eloquent in its continuation. After she escorted his last appointment from the office at four forty-five and didn't return to badger him about the backlog of correspondence, or the checks she had left in the top desk drawer to be signed, or Jackson's latest brief draft, panic began to set in. He hastily scrawled his signature on the checks and stuffed them back into the folder. There was a small pile of letters in the drawer as well, left over from a client's early arrival the day before. He quickly scanned three and penned notes in the margins. Armed with the peace offering of the signed checks and the attended-to correspondence, he crossed his office and jerked open the connecting door.

His secretary was seated at her desk, head pillowed in her arms. At the sound of the door opening, she raised her head and blinked at him, her expression as blank as it had been since his return from the parking garage. He wanted for her to smile, would gladly give up what little remained of his soul if she smiled.

He held out the file to her. "I signed the checks and answered a of couple letters," he began, awkwardly holding out the file toward her.

Della made no move to take the file, not even when he surrendered to her silence and placed it on the blotter in front of her.

He didn't know what to do, what to say. His mind screamed at her to say something, even if it was "I quit". When she didn't say anything, he turned slowly and headed back to his own office, furious at his inability to speak.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mason."

The words were nearly inaudible, a controlled whisper infused with regret. Perry Mason spun around to face her, relief engulfing him, breaking the dam of shame that held back his words. "Good grief, Della, _**you**_ have nothing to be sorry about! My behavior this morning was abominable. I owe you more apologies than I can count."

She refused to look at him, head bowed, hands clasped in her lap, back ram-rod straight. He moved swiftly around the desk to stand next to her, to gaze down at her in giddy relief.

"I'm not proud of the way I behaved today myself," she admitted. "You're the boss and an adult. I had no right to be so openly disapproving."

"Maybe the door slam was a bit over the top," he readily agreed, "but aside from than that, I deserved every rebuke."

Della heard the hint of amusement in his voice, was afraid that he might be grinning at her, thereby guaranteeing to pull a smile out of her, and she wasn't ready to smile just yet. Her head remained bowed, eyes locked on her folded hands. "You may think you deserved it, but I had no right to dole it out. You can be assured I won't let my temper get the better of me ever again."

Perry impulsively reached out his hand and placed a curved finger beneath her chin, pulling her face up to meet his intent eyes. "Della, I want your temper to get the better of you if it means putting me in my place for the sake of a client. There is absolutely no excuse for being late to the deposition this morning. I promise you will never have to cover any more lapses in my professionalism." His fingers released her chin and moved to her head to lightly caress the slight bump that remained from the morning's encounter with the door. "Does it still hurt?"

Della hadn't expected his gentle touch or the question. "N-not much," she stammered slightly. "Ice and aspirin work miracles."

He withdrew his hand and slumped against the desk, arms folded across his chest. "You should have gone home," he told her.

"I had a deposition to transcribe, lunch to arrange, doors to slam," she reminded him with a fleeting smile.

Relatively assured she wasn't going to say "I quit", and quite content that she had smiled, he chucked her under the chin and stood up to his full height. "As you pointed out, Miss Street, I am the boss. I hereby order you to go home right now. I will not tolerate any argument."

"But I haven't finished –"

Strong fingers closed around her arm and pulled her effortlessly to her feet. "I said no arguing, young lady," he said sternly. "Things are relatively quiet and you can get a fresh start in the morning if you feel up to it. I'm going to check in with Paul regarding Mr. Avery, and when I get back, I expect you to be long gone. Good night, Miss Street." He moved away from her and through the doorway to his office, leaving the door open.

Della stood rooted to the spot, unsure whether to obey Mr. Mason's order and go home, or to stay until he came back from The Drake Detective Agency in case he needed her. Ultimately she decided to clean up the office a bit and if he came back before she finished, then so be it. She would be there if he needed her. If he didn't come back by the time she finished, she would simply leave as directed.

Della finished drying the coffee pot in the washroom and carried it back through the open connecting door to her office. She placed it in the cabinet, then walked behind her desk and pulled out the cover to her typewriter and slipped it over the machine. She was reaching for her purse, which she had set at the edge of her desk, when she heard his voice, rumbling and agitated. Feeling slightly guilty at still being in the office but unable to make an exit due to the open door, she tried not to listen, tried not to decipher what he was saying and to whom.

"I know it wasn't your fault. It was my fault. I take full responsibility. If I hadn't thrown the damn hat at the statue she wouldn't have knelt to pick it up at the moment you came barging in."

Della pressed herself against the typewriter, praying that he was seated at his desk with his back to the door so she could grab her purse and sneak through to the outer office. If he was facing forward, he would see her and she could never explain why she was skulking in her office, listening to his phone call with Miss Cavanaugh.

"Laura, I told you. We've had other things to discuss. I wasn't hiding the fact I'd hired a new secretary from you. It just never came up in conversation." He was silent for a moment. "Well, I suppose I could have brought her up when you told me about Elsie, but you were upset and I wanted to hear – Laura, calm down. This isn't getting us anywhere. I had to fire Miss Getty because she nearly ruined my practice, and Della has done a superb job cleaning up the mess." Another silence. "That doesn't amuse me, Laura. I'm not going to get rid of the best secretary I've ever had because of what happened this morning. Della knows it was an accident and says she's fine. Just forget it." A longer silence. "Fine. Do what you have to do, Laura. I'm not letting go of Della." He hung up the receiver with a bang.

Swinging around in his chair, he noticed that the connecting door was open almost all the way, and was glad he had sent Della home, considering how badly his conversation with Laura had gone. He had called to confirm plans for the next evening, but she hadn't wanted to talk about that. Instead she had started in immediately about not being told that he'd hired a new secretary. Nothing with Laura was easy lately, not even what should have been a simple phone call.

Perry closed the connecting door, walked through the deserted outer office and took the elevator to the parking garage.

He was almost all the way home before he realized that he had told Laura he wouldn't let go of Della. Not that he wouldn't let Della go.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

"I was surprised you called tonight," he said, reaching behind her head and deftly removing the barrette that still imprisoned her hair. He buried his hands in the soft curls, fingers gently massaging her neck. "Surprised and quite pleased." He liked her hair to fall loose on bare shoulders and tickle his face when he kissed her.

Della sighed hugely. She no longer had a headache, but the top of her head was still tender. "And I was quite pleased you were home with nothing to do."

He placed several smacking kisses across her shoulder, ending in a nibble beneath her ear. "So am I." His mouth trailed across her collar bone to nibble beneath her other ear. "I've been staying at the office late the past couple weeks, but tonight for some reason I sent my secretary home early and walked into my apartment ten minutes before you called."

She arched into him, giving him more access to her neck while his hands moved down her sides to rest on her hips. "Isn't that something," she remarked with a gasping moan as he shifted beneath her. "I'm a secretary and my boss sent me home early tonight too."

"Well it's about time you left that job early," he groused. "I've never known a boss to keep his secretary out till all hours of the night the way yours does."

"You just said you've been staying late at work," she pointed out.

"Ah, but the difference is that my secretary leaves promptly at five-thirty. Last Friday I waited almost an hour for you at the restaurant before you showed up still in your work clothes."

She had called him because she needed someone to talk to, but now was regretting the call. She didn't want to talk about how much time she spent at her job, with her boss. Rodger had been happy for her when she'd accepted the job with Perry Mason because he knew how much she disliked languishing in a steno pool, the only job she could find without local references, until Perry Mason recognized her as the one who could straighten out his practice and run his office. She quit the steno pool that afternoon and began working for Mr. Mason the next morning.

But now he complained bitterly about her dream job, about the hours she kept, about the work she brought home that interfered with the precious few hours they had together. Once she had pointed out his status as a married man – nearly divorced – also interfered with their time together, but he failed to see where that fact had anything to do with their regular Friday night and Sunday afternoon dates, aside from the limitation of their relationship to a few hours on each day. That particular Sunday afternoon he returned to his apartment without seeing the surprise she had waiting for him beneath her sundress.

So it was with some trepidation that she'd dialed his number this night, a Thursday. She needed human contact, and everyone she'd called prior to him hadn't answered. The encounter with Laura Cavanaugh had rattled her. The boss's "lady friend" made her feel out of sorts and less than she was, even though Miss Cavanaugh was no one to her, would never be anyone to her.

"I'm not letting go of Della", Mr. Mason had said in response to an obvious request by Miss Cavanaugh to fire her. She wished she had chanced it and immediately exited the office. Overhearing Mr. Mason's end of the conversation only added to her unrest.

Rodger's lips began an upward course, ending at the sore spot on top of her head. "Does it hurt, babe?"

"Not much anymore, and definitely not when you kiss it."

"Tell me again exactly how it happened."

"Rodger, it's not a story that holds up well with frequent retelling. I bent over to pick up something and Miss Cavanaugh opened the door. My head just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"What was it you were picking up again?"

"A hat," she answered with growing exasperation.

"And what was a hat doing on the floor in your boss's office?"

"It wasn't doing anything. Hats are inanimate objects. It was just lying there. That's why I was picking it up." She began to struggle a bit in his arms, pushing herself up from his chest.

"I mean, how did it get on floor?" His arms closed about her in a firm embrace, pulled her back down to him. "Stop squirming, Della, or I can't be responsible for what could happen that would disappoint both of us."

She smiled despite herself. "It was on the floor because Mr. Mason threw it at the statue of Blackstone and missed."

"Is he in the habit of throwing things at statues of Blackstone?" His hips began working a lazy rhythm against her.

She shook her head, loose curls dragging across his face, ticking his nose exactly how he liked. "No, just hats. Ohhhh…do that again." She closed her eyes, surrender quivering through her, grateful that he finally stopped talking.

* * *

><p>She nudged him with her elbow. "Rodger, you have to leave." He was lying with his back pressed up against her back.<p>

He swatted at her arm. "I'm too tired right now. Somebody kept me up past my bedtime."

She nudged him more vehemently. "It's almost eleven-thirty. We both have to work tomorrow. And if I'm tired from being up all night tonight … well, the impact on tomorrow night could be severe."

He sprang from the mattress and reached for his clothes in one quick motion. "In that case, I'll be leaving now, babe."

She laughed while he struggled quickly into his suit, crammed sockless feet into his shoes and draped his tie around his neck without knotting it. He leaned over and kissed her. "I'll be at the restaurant waiting for you," he whispered against her mouth. "Don't you let your hat-throwing boss or his door-swinging girlfriend make you late. Having you tonight only made me want you more tomorrow."

She rolled onto her back and listened while he stealthily closed the door of her apartment behind him. A slow smile crawled across her face as she stretched and let out a two-note yawn. The only thing she liked better than inviting him into her bed was kicking him out of it.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Della took great care dressing for work Friday morning, still a bit stung by Laura Cavanaugh's silent critique of her the previous day and the disdain for the barrette that had ultimately caused her injury. So today she pulled out her favorite summer dress, one that depending upon how it was accessorized was suitable for either work or dining out. The price had exceeded her budget, but she bought it anyway as a reward for landing the job with Perry Mason. She also packed her best evening jewelry and shoes in a small tote so she could change at the office and not be late to meet Rodger at the restaurant for their Friday night date.

She hummed quietly to herself as the elevator deposited her on the ninth floor. She fitted her latch key into the lock of the outer office door and entered the office, stepping on something that her spike heel punctured and caused her foot to slip off the side of the open-backed peep toe pump, twisting her ankle slightly. Cursing beneath her breath she picked up her foot and snatched the impaled envelope from the heel of her shoe. She completed the walk across the outer office to her interior office gingerly, wincing with each step at the twinge of pain that shot from her ankle to her instep.

Seated at her desk with her foot raised on a box of files, Della glanced over her daybook, made a few reminder notations, read the messages left for her and Mr. Mason, and then moved on to yesterday's mail. The last letter she unfolded was from the envelope that had been shoved under the outer office door, and now sported three holes in a row down the middle. Addressed to Mr. Mason and signed by Margaret Singleton, it was an atrociously penned invective assault on Della personally in regard to the firing of her daughter, Alice. If Margaret Singleton hadn't been so sadly misguided, Della would have laughed. Instead, she sighed loudly, unlocked one of the cabinets behind her desk, and pulled out Alice Singleton's personnel file with all of the gathered evidence and notes regarding the young woman's nefarious activities in partnership with Jeanne Getty.

She started a pot of coffee, then pushed open the connecting door to Perry Mason's private office and limped across to his desk, where she placed the personnel file in the center of the blotter, and arranged the most urgent stack of letters above it, followed by the important letter pile, and then the pile she would handle herself but her boss needed to at least be aware of. She was just heading back to her office when she heard his latch key in the lock and turned to greet him.

None of his usual morning cheerfulness was evident in his expression or bearing. "Good morning, Della. I hope you're feeling better." He moved to his desk chair and sank wearily into it, plopping his briefcase onto the floor and carelessly letting his hat fly in the direction of Blackstone. Remarkably, it found its target and settled at a slight tilt over the barrister's right eye. He didn't appear to notice. "Do we have coffee?"

"I do indeed feel much better, and the coffee should be ready by now. I'll get a cup while you're reading the letter and the file in the center of the blotter. I'd like to get a reply posted in the morning mail." She limped into her office and returned a few moments later with a cup of coffee for each of them. As she settled herself in her steno chair, she watched for a reaction to the documents in the file and then to the letter. His face remained nearly expressionless. She wondered if he suspected she had overheard his conversation with Miss Cavanaugh.

He slapped the file shut, sat back in his chair and looked at her searchingly. "What's the matter with your foot?"

No wonder he was so good in court. He never asked the expected questions. "I twisted my ankle slightly. It's nothing. I'll walk it off soon enough."

He raised the punctured letter. "I take it this is somehow connected to your twisted ankle? The holes look suspiciously like the heel of a woman's shoe."

She sat back in her chair, and smiled. "If you are wondering if I stamped on it in anger, the answer is no. It was slipped under the door and I stepped on it when I opened the office this morning. That's how I twisted my ankle."

"Well, now you have something to take your mind off the bump on your head," he pointed out with skewed logic. "You've had a couple of bad days, haven't you?"

"Nothing I can't handle. I'm afraid I'll live another day to hound you about the mail."

His expression remained oddly unreadable. "Why didn't you come to me with your suspicions about Alice?"

She met his blankness with an equally benign expression. "Because you gave me responsibility over the administrative staff and I handled the situation as I saw fit. Alice is gone and there will be no more confidential documents leaving this office. The amount of money and supplies stolen can be written off. A highly recommended temporary from a reputable agency will be starting today, and if we like her, she is willing to work full time. The only matter that requires your attention is the letter from Alice's mother. If she hears it from you, she'll be satisfied."

He studied her silently for a moment. "You look especially nice this morning," he said quietly.

"My, aren't you are in a mood," she commented, immediately regretting her insolence. "Thank you."

He studied her silently for another moment. "I've gotten used to you," he blurted, then scowled ferociously at the inept attempt at conveying his thoughts. He wanted her to know he appreciated her loyalty, her tireless efforts to correct the course of his practice, and her straight forward manner of speaking to him. How could he tell her that her smile had become his touchstone, a comfort that calmed him and put his life in perspective?

Della couldn't help but laugh at his expression. "I've gotten used to you, too, Chief," she replied with cheeky sincerity

"That's very – hey, what's with this "Chief" malarkey?" A sudden smile twitched at his lips.

"Well, you asked me not to call you Mr. Mason," she reminded him. "I thought about it, and decided to borrow from Gianni. He's right. You look like a Chief."

"I always thought I rather looked like a Perry," he commented with raised eyebrows.

She appraised his splendid countenance thoughtfully. "No, not really. You look like a Chief. Besides, you're the Chief of this outfit."

He sat back in his chair and looked at her with bemused eyes. "Della, I may technically be the boss, but you are undoubtedly in charge around here. How you handled everything yesterday was irrefutable proof of that."

Her eyes sparkled merrily as she treated him to her most brilliant smile. "Now that you've affirmed that most important fact, what say we dispatch with this pile of mail?"

After an hour of dictation and five minutes of typing, Della was sealing an envelope addressed to Margaret Singleton in which Mr. Mason politely expressed his regret that it had been necessary to let her daughter go, firmly standing behind the decision of his office manager, Miss Street. She affixed a stamp and quickly walked through the outer office to the mail slot in the corridor to deposit it, so that it would be posted in the morning mail. She was half-way back to the office when a gravelly feminine voice hailed her, and an out-of-breath Raylene Avery lumbered up beside her.

Mrs. Avery was the positive to the negative of her husband. Above average in height, firmly fleshed, confident in bearing and speech, she exuded an aura of authority and competence sorely lacking in her jittery husband. "Miss Street!" She puffed. "I have to speak with Mr. Mason for just a few moments. I don't have much time, because Ronnie is home alone, but Mr. Mason needs to know what's been going on since he got Ronnie out of jail. It's ridiculous. A parade of women went through our house yesterday."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Attorney and secretary listened with patient amusement as their client's agitated wife related how since bringing her husband home from jail the previous morning, no less than eleven women from Garners Manufacturing had stopped by to deliver food and offer their sympathy and support.

"You'd think someone had died," Raylene Avery concluded with a snort, "the way they fawned all over him."

Perry Mason cleared his throat. "Mrs. Avery, someone did die."

Mrs. Avery looked surprised. "Well, no one's sorry about _**that**_," she clarified. "I meant you'd think someone in our _**family**_ had died. Ronnie spends a night in jail and they bring us food? It's ridiculous, I tell you. And I'll tell you something else. Whoever it was called the police about Wilson Garners has to be one of those women. I've never seen anything so ridiculous. And Ronnie's just eating it up. They pat his hands and bat their eyes and tell him what a wonderful, kind man he is and how they know he didn't embezzle from Mr. Garners, let alone murder him."

"Do you know any of these women, Mrs. Avery?"

"I've met a few of them at the annual company picnic. And I of course know Ronnie's secretary, Linda McNair quite well. She's been infatuated with him for years, so I expected her to stop by, and she was the first one on our doorstep. She brought his favorite cookies." She stood suddenly and thrust out her hand. "I have to be going now," she announced. "I told Ronnie I was going to do my usual Friday marketing and drove all the way down here to tell you what's been going on."

When Della returned from escorting Raylene Avery to the outer office, she found her employer leaning back against the credenza with a delighted grin on his face. "Della," he said, "did you ever in your life imagine Ronald Avery a ladies man? Eleven women?"

She finally gave in to her amusement and laughed. "That was just yesterday's total. More could show up today. Garners Manufacturing employs about six hundred people."

He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "The board of directors has voted in a new president to run the company during the murder investigation and eventual probating of Wilson Garners' estate. A press release was issued late last night to the effect that the board intends to continue operating the company according to Mr. Garners' vision. For the moment they tabled the pending embezzlement charges against Ronald Avery, but hinted that the first order of business of the new president would be to put Mr. Avery on indefinite leave until all matters were sorted out."

"I didn't see any of that reported in this morning's paper."

"You write checks in obscene amounts each month to Paul Drake to assure I know such things before the papers do," he replied. "The police are stumbling through the investigation without a murder weapon and without any evidence of our client's presence at the scene save for that unsubstantiated anonymous call. They can't make a case against anyone, and the District Attorney is chewing butts at Headquarters."

"What do you think of all these women being so concerned about Mr. Avery and bringing him food?"

He grinned again. "I think I need to talk to Mr. Avery and find out what his secret is."

"Want to know what I think?"

"Absolutely."

"I think they all just want to mother him. He's a very thin, very nice, very nervous man married to a domineering woman who runs roughshod over him. He's probably the best boss those women have ever had, and they want to show their appreciation in a way they don't think his wife would."

"You don't think Mrs. Avery feeds her husband? That's very interesting."

"Well, look at her and look at him. She's obviously well-fed. So she either doesn't feed him, or she makes him so nervous he can't eat. Or, maybe she's a horrible cook and the women at Garners Manufacturing are aware of it."

Perry fought valiantly to tamp down a smile. "If Mrs. Avery is a horrible cook, why does she look so well-fed?"

"Because horrible cooks don't know they are horrible cooks," she replied matter-of-factly. "My aunt used to make a stew that was the vilest thing anyone had ever tasted, but she loved it, and actually ate it every day for lunch. I tried to feed it to the dog under the table, but _**he **_wouldn't eat it either."__

He gave in to the urge to smile at the rare glimpse of her private life. "Was this stew possibly the basis for your healthy appetite now?"

"I've never thought about it," she answered seriously, "but it could be."

His smile became an outright laugh. "Della, not only have I gotten used to you, but I've come to rely on your observations and your ability to think things through and present angles I wouldn't think of. Yesterday I fully expected you to quit after everything that happened, and was angry at myself because it would be my behavior that caused you to quit. The past few weeks have shown me that I can't be anything but what I am, and I need you to make sure everything runs smoothly while I do what I do best. Do you think you can continue to work for me, knowing that I'll probably make you ten degrees of mad at least once a day?"

She treated him to a slow smile. "I'm not letting Della go", he'd said. Well, she wouldn't let him go, either.

"I'll stay and do what I do best, Chief," she promised. "As long as you continue to pay me an outrageous salary."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Della had pulled her hair into a loose up-do, exchanged pearls for sparkly crystals and leather mules for silver sandals and was bent over retrieving her purse from the bottom drawer at six forty-five when she heard a small cough behind her. She straightened quickly, too quickly, and stumbled a bit against her desk when confronted by Laura Cavanaugh's eyes.

"Good evening." The words were polite, the tone not so much. "I don't believe we were properly introduced. I'm Laura Cavanaugh." She didn't offer her hand because it held a man's garment bag.

Della was speechless a beat too long and felt a flush creep into her cheeks. "Della Street," she managed to say steadily, resisting the urge to reach back and tug at the clip that held her curls secure.

"I hope you aren't feeling any ill effects from that unfortunate incident, Miss Street." Laura's voice remained cool and overly polite, as if she had rehearsed her words repeatedly, thereby draining them of all sincerity

"None at all," Della assured her breezily.

"That's good," Laura said blandly. "You can imagine how surprised I was to find you on the floor when I opened the door."

I'll just bet you were, Della thought with sudden amusement. So surprised that you had to come back and deliver that most insincere non-apology, holding Mr. Mason's dinner clothes as a shield in front of you. Laura Cavanaugh didn't strike her as a woman who apologized. Ever. For anything. "I don't usually spend my time on the floor," she replied in the same breezy manner. "It was unfortunate timing, but no permanent harm done."

Laura gave an almost imperceptible nod. She was dressed for cocktails in a sleeveless black silk fit and flair dress, drop diamonds dangling from delicate ears, and a matching necklace surrounding her dainty neck. As she adjusted her silk wrap, more diamonds flashed at both wrists. Della noted no diamond on her left hand.

"Mr. Mason isn't here at the moment," Della volunteered. "He ran down to check in with Mr. Drake. He should be back soon."

An expression of distaste crossed Laura Cavanaugh's face. "Then I'll just wait in his office until he returns," she announced, but made no move toward the door.

"I'll gladly call Mr. Drake's office and get a message to Mr. Mason that you are waiting." Della reached for the phone as Miss Cavanaugh remained standing in front of her desk, holding the garment bag in one hand and her evening clutch in the other.

"That would be fine," she answered stiffly. Her nearly black eyes shifted from Della to the door and back again.

You have got to be kidding, Della thought as she ignored Miss Cavanaugh's obvious hint for her to open the connecting door and dialed the phone number of the Drake Detective Agency. "Hi, Ruth, it's Della. Would you poke your head in Mr. Drake's office and tell Mr. Mason that Miss Cavanaugh has arrived and is waiting in his office? What's that?" She laughed. "I do, and I'm running late. I will…take care yourself. Oh, could you leave a message for Margo that I'll have Mr. Drake's bill audited by Monday afternoon? Thanks, Ruth." In front of a client she would not have been so informal, but on a Friday at nearly seven o'clock, she felt formality was unnecessary, especially since she'd had no notice of Miss Cavanaugh's eminent arrival.

Della hung up the phone and glanced at Laura Cavanaugh, who was brilliantly conveying indifference to the conversation and Della herself. Swallowing a sigh of impatience, Della circled the desk and hurried to the connecting door. Only when she swung it open did Miss Cavanaugh propel herself forward and sail past her in a cloud of Chanel No. 5. She draped the garment bag over the back of the leather client's chair and turned back to face Della.

"Perry keeps a supply of liquor somewhere in the office, doesn't he?" She raised heavy eyebrows at Della. "Why don't we have a cocktail and get acquainted until Perry returns."

Della chose her words very carefully. "Miss Cavanaugh, I have an engagement for which I am running late. I'll be more than happy to show you where Mr. Mason keeps the liquor, but then I must excuse myself. Perhaps we can get acquainted some other time." Already twenty minutes late in leaving the office to meet Rodger, and knowing how he hated to be kept waiting, how she had kept him waiting not only the past four Fridays, but two Sundays as well, the last thing Della wanted was to share a drink with Miss Cavanaugh.

A look of horror moved across Laura Cavanaugh's expertly made-up face. "You can't possibly leave me alone in this office after hours. Perry would hardly approve of that."

Perry would approve of just about any decision I made, Della thought peevishly, but bit back the snappishness she was tempted to articulate. The last thing she wanted to do was feign politeness with her boss's girlfriend, the girlfriend who had demanded that she be fired, the girlfriend who couldn't be very happy that Perry Mason had refused to fire her.

Silently Della moved past Laura Cavanaugh toward Perry Mason's big desk. She opened the bottom drawer that had contained one of the crystal encrusted pumps Miss Cavanaugh now wore, and took out a bottle of expensive bourbon and two glasses. She poured two fingers of the smoky liquid into the glasses, handed one to Miss Cavanaugh, and picked up the other.

"To what should we toast, Miss Street?" Laura Cavanaugh raised her glass. Her eyes were nearly black, so dark that the pupil was all but indistinguishable from the iris. Their color made them almost unreadable, a closed door to her thoughts.

"Mr. Mason likes to drink to crime," Della suggested, wanting nothing more than to simply toss back the bourbon and take leave of Laura Cavanaugh.

"Mr. Mason has a sense of humor about his profession I don't happen to share," Miss Cavanaugh responded archly. "How about we drink to new jobs and well-laid paths to our ambitions?"

Della obligingly touched the rim of her glass to Miss Cavanaugh's and took a healthy sip of the perfectly aged whiskey, never taking her eyes off of the petite attorney.

Miss Cavanaugh tossed back the entire two fingers of bourbon and proceeded to wander around the expansive private office of Perry Mason. "The changes you've made to the office are quite interesting. What gave you the idea of plunking this enormous chair in front of Perry's desk?"

"Our clients are generally frightened and jittery. Sitting in the client chair relaxes them. It's large and masculine and suits Mr. Mason."

Miss Cavanaugh laughed delightedly. "Yes, that certainly does describe Perry. Large and masculine. I guess you'd hardly be a woman if you didn't notice."

"I notice a lot of things," Della replied lightly.

Laura Cavanaugh had reached the sliding glass doors to the terrace and turned slowly to pin Della with those inscrutable dark eyes. "I can tell that you do," Laura agreed. "Tell me, Miss Street. What do you notice about me?"

Della knew better than to answer such a question, knew she should demur on the grounds of Miss Cavanaugh's relationship to her boss, but to her horror she heard her own voice say "I noticed that you knew nothing about me until yesterday and that you very quickly decided to dislike me."

"My dear, whether I like you or not is neither here nor there. I don't socialize with people like you. I hire people like you."

The opening of the private door to the back corridor and Perry Mason's boisterous arrival interrupted what could have been a disastrous retort from Della, as she fought to control a surge of outrage.

"Della! You're still here?" He took in her stiff posture, the deep red flush in her cheeks, the half-full drink held tightly in her hand.

"I cajoled her into sharing a drink with me," Laura Cavanaugh answered from her stance by the terrace. "Experience has taught me that you and Paul lose track of time when discussing a case and I knew you wouldn't want me to wait alone." Her glittering eyes held Della's in silent contempt.

"Fortunately our most involved case is currently at a standstill, so I had no problem cutting the conversation short." He shifted his eyes from Della's flushed face to the studied innocence of Laura's expression. What the hell had she said to Della to upset her? "What are you doing here? We decided to meet at your place."

"Perry darling, it's almost seven. We agreed you would pick me up at five forty-five." Laura pulled her mouth into a semblance of a smile directed at Della. "We're having an early dinner with my parents, then meeting friends later."

Della felt the flush in her cheeks subside as she recognized the desperation in Laura Cavanaugh's attempt to make her feel insignificant by laying a firm claim to Perry Mason's private life. Dinner with parents and shared friendships trumped the day-to-day professional life she shared with him, and by arriving with a change of clothing Miss Cavanaugh had dressed the scene perfectly, in a manner of speaking.

"That's lovely," Della remarked with a smile. "I'm late for dinner myself, so if you'll excuse me, I really must be going." She glanced at her silent boss, who again was silent and ill-at-ease when she and Miss Cavanaugh were in the room together, and headed toward her office.

"Good night, Miss Street," Laura Cavanaugh called out.

At the doorway, Della glanced over her shoulder. Laura Cavanaugh was standing next to Perry Mason, her petite frame dwarfed by his athletic build as she reached up and hooked her finger through his lapel. But the lawyer wasn't paying any attention to her. His eyes met Della's, and she was surprised by the sadness and apology she saw in their intense blueness.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Della had been standing at the curb for ten minutes trying vainly to catch a cab. Friday night at seven in the heart of Los Angeles was a busy time, and cabs were at a premium. The one taxi that pulled over had been rudely appropriated by a group of three young women dressed in cheap shiny clothes that roughly shoved her away from the door and hopped in, their hysterical laughter wafting back to her above the street noise as the taxi eased back into traffic. She was just about to begin walking in the direction of the restaurant when a big black car slid to the curb in front of her. The front passenger door opened and Laura Cavanaugh's annoyed voice assailed her.

"Get in, Miss Street. We'll drop you wherever it is you're headed."

Walking to the restaurant or sharing a ride with her boss and his girlfriend were equally onerous. However, it took Della but a few seconds to decide in favor of a definite ride over the possibility of picking up a taxi on another block, and she quickly grabbed the car door and jumped into the Cadillac. There was a lengthy awkward silence as Perry Mason jockeyed the big car into a traffic lane. Each preoccupied with unspoken thoughts, none of them noticed the small, nondescript coupe that followed them down the boulevard at a discreet distance.

The light at the end of the block turned yellow as the car ahead of them approached, and Perry Mason braked his car to a smooth stop. "Well, damsel in distress, where are you headed?" He had changed in record time from his suit to a white gabardine dinner jacket, pleated dress shirt, and black bow tie, closed in the office wash room so he wouldn't have to talk with Laura. He managed to sidestep her complaints about Della's behavior until they were in the car on their way out of the parking garage. Seeing an obviously frustrated Della standing at the curb in her hopeless quest for a taxicab, and knowing she was late for her own dinner engagement, he had mentioned that since Della had been delayed leaving work, the least they could do was offer her a ride. Laura hadn't been pleased, but her protest that being on time for dinner with her parents was of far more importance than delivering his secretary to her date only drew a perturbed frown from him and a terse command to call Della over to the car.

Della gave him the name and address of the restaurant where she hoped Rodger was still waiting and settled herself as comfortably as possible against the door. Laura Cavanaugh settled herself as well, her gloved hand landing familiarly on Perry Mason's thigh. He cast a disapproving look at her, which she tacitly ignored while launching into an unsolicited negative review of the restaurant. Paul Drake was right. Laura Cavanaugh was a pill.

Mercifully the restaurant was but ten blocks down and three blocks over from the Brent Building, and Perry's skillful driving got them there rather quickly, just as Laura concluded her litany of complaints about it. He pulled to the curb, flung open his door and moved around the big car to assist Della. She took his proffered hand and gracefully exited the automobile, shaking out her skirt in a charmingly feminine way as he slammed the door closed and escorted her a few steps away from the car. His hand held hers a fraction longer than necessary, which made her glance up at him. Again she saw unspoken sadness and apology in his eyes, and something else she couldn't quite identify.

"Thank you for rescuing me," she said quietly. "I hope Miss Cavanaugh's parents won't be upset at being kept waiting."

"I'm glad I could do this favor, since I kept you at the office late on a Friday night," he replied. "And don't worry about Laura's parents. They're much more understanding than their daughter."

"Then I guess –" she didn't have the chance to finish her sentence because someone grabbed her from behind.

"Here you are!" Rodger exclaimed, squeezing her in an exuberant hug. "I thought you had stood me up." He stumbled a bit, holding onto her to steady himself. Obviously he had spent his time waiting for her with a steady flow of cocktails.

Della's cheeks were flushed a bit at his public display of affection, especially a public that included her boss, as she unclasped his hands from around her waist. "Rodger, I'd like you to meet my boss. He saved me from a long walk when I couldn't get a taxi."

Rodger took a step back, suddenly wary, regarding the lawyer with suspicion. He thrust out his hand. "Rodger Eastlund. So you're the guy who keeps Della at the office till all hours of the night." He turned to Della. "He doesn't look like an ogre to me."

Perry Mason shook Rodger Eastlund's hand while looking at Della with frank amusement. "Perry Mason. I'm only an ogre during business hours."

Miss Cavanaugh poked her head out the window and called to Mr. Mason about being late for their own dinner engagement, which diverted Della's attention away from wanting to slap Rodger. She waved to Miss Cavanaugh, who was staring at her with a strange expression, as Perry Mason excused himself, climbed back into the car and rejoined the flow of traffic on the narrow street.

She turned to Rodger. "How could you say that to my boss?" She demanded.

"It was a joke, babe." Rodger snaked his arm around her waist. "Although I should have punched him in the nose for keeping you late again. I had to give up our table, which is why I was waiting outside. Let's grab a taxi and go somewhere else."

Rodger hailed a cab rather quickly and gave the driver the name of a restaurant. Della was still perturbed about the ogre comment and paid no attention to the name of their destination. In the back seat, Rodger declared that he was desperate for her kisses, and playfully pulled her to him. The little grey coupe, which had been idling at the curb, went undetected as Rodger thoroughly smeared her lipstick, unbuttoned two buttons, and pulled her hair from its clip.

Della barely managed to fix her lipstick and re-button her dress when the taxi deposited them in front of a glass-fronted, narrow Italian restaurant. She stared at the neon sign in disbelief. _Luigi's._

* * *

><p>Laura Cavanaugh had continued to watch Della and her date through the rear window until Perry turned the corner.<p>

"I don't believe it," she declared.

"Don't believe what?" He was disconcerted about the little scene in front of the restaurant. Della's gentleman friend was certainly good-looking, obviously had money, and obviously was inebriated. His suit was impeccably tailored, he wore a Cartier watch and expensive kid leather shoes. The ogre joke was unexpected, and Della had obviously been embarrassed. He could almost forgive Laura her rudeness in making his hasty exit possible. Why had meeting Rodger Eastlund unsettled him so?

"Do you know who that man was?"

"His name was Rodger Eastlund."

"I thought so. And do you know who Rodger Eastlund is?"

"I have absolutely no idea, aside from being Della's date."

"Rodger Eastlund is the son of R. Andrew Eastlund of Eastlund Development. He's being groomed to take over the business when his father retires next year."

"Well good for her. A young man with a future." He couldn't think about Della and Rodger Eastlund. What if she married him and quit her job? The thought petrified him. How would his practice survive without her? How could he survive without her?

Laura turned in the seat to observe his profile. "I have to give your secretary some credit. She managed to snag quite a catch. There's only one problem."

"And what would that be?"

"He's married."

* * *

><p>Luigi greeted Della effusively the instant she walked through the door.<p>

"Why Miss Street! What nice surprise you come back to see Luigi." The rotund Italian advanced on Della to take her hand, but stopped as Rodger walked up behind her.

Della cleared her throat. "It's, uh, nice to see you again, Luigi. Might you have a booth available?"

Recovering from his surprise at her companion, Luigi bowed and clapped his hands. Gianni was instantly at his side, a wide smile of recognition on his face. "Gianni, you take Miss Street and her gentleman to number seven, please."

"You betcha," Gianni said, his smile never fading. Della and Rodger followed the slight waiter to a booth set with a red and white checkered cloth and no less than four taper candles burning in assorted wax-dripped wine bottles. Gianni patiently stood aside as Della and Rodger settled themselves and gave him their cocktail order. When Gianni withdrew, Rodger gave Della a pained look.

"You've been here before," he said dejectedly.

"Just once," she replied truthfully. "It's a lovely place, Rodger. I'm glad you brought me here." She reached across the table and placed her hand over his.

"Who brought you here first?" Rodger had imbibed quite a bit on an empty stomach, but the sick feeling in his stomach had nothing to do with too much alcohol.

"It doesn't matter. I'm here with you tonight and we're going to have a fabulous meal. Afterward we'll go – "

"You came here with him, didn't you? That Perry Mason fellow? What the _**hell,**_ Della?"

"Rodger, calm down. Yes, I came here with Mr. Mason, but it was after we'd worked quite late on a brief, and then Mr. Avery was picked up on suspicion of murder and we had to go to Police Headquarters, and the next morning Miss Cavanaugh knocked me in the head with the door, and I called you …" she was babbling, all too aware of how it must look to him that she had dined alone with her boss. "Rodger, it was totally innocent. We talked about work and ate. That's all."

Gianni made his magical appearance and set their cocktails down in front of them. Della shook her head almost imperceptibly and he once again faded into the shadows.

Rodger picked up his drink and took a gulp, never taking his eyes from Della. "I had special plans for tonight," he announced. "But how can I go through with them knowing that you are out at restaurants with your boss when you claim to be working?"

"It was one time! Just once, just this past week. You have to trust me."

Rodger drained his drink. "I did trust you until I actually met your Perry Mason. I'm a man and I think he's damn irresistible."

Della broke into laughter. "Didn't you notice the woman in the car? That's Miss Cavanaugh, his lady friend. He's unavailable. I'm unavailable." She squeezed his hand.

His attention was diverted momentarily by Gianni seating a single female in the booth seat behind Della. He picked up her cocktail and polished it off in two gulps, then reached into the pocket of his suit coat and tossed something shiny and metallic onto the table between them. Della gasped and stared at him with enormous, shocked eyes.

"The divorce was finalized today," he announced.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Della picked up the ring and turned it over in her hand. Fully two carats, emerald cut, platinum setting. It was the most beautiful ring she had ever seen. It grew warm in her hand as she held it.

"I planned a much different proposal," Rodger continued. "I had flowers, but the maître de wouldn't let me take them to the table. I had to leave them behind the reservation desk with him and then forgot to get them when I left. I mentioned I didn't like that place, right? They didn't have champagne flutes, only those flat champagne glasses, so I couldn't put the ring in a glass for you to find. Then I remembered this place and how romantic it is because of all the candles, but I find out you've been here already this week, with that man you work for."

The ring became so warm it burned her fingers. She dropped it back onto the table. "Rodger, we've never discussed marriage. I – I can't believe you bought a ring."

"I've been thinking about it for a while. We have fun together. We should get married."

"We do have fun together. But how we have fun is not exactly a strong basis for a marriage."

"But I'm officially divorced now. Everyone knows we've been seeing each other, and I want to be married again."

Their relationship, while conducted quietly, had not exactly been illicit. Rodger's wife had full knowledge, and the only request she made was that their children not meet her until the divorce was final, when she would introduce the man who was her fiancé, the man for whom she had broken up the marriage.

"Just because you're officially divorced doesn't mean you have to jump immediately into another marriage." Rodger was quite handsome, intelligent in an in-the-moment kind of way, and could be a bit silly. He had minced no words in describing his attraction to her from the first moment they met, had in fact pursued her persistently for weeks. She had finally succumbed to his charm, primarily because it was nice to laugh and be showered with outrageously flattering compliments, to be touched intimately and feel like a woman. But not once in five months did she give consideration to marrying him. Especially not now, when she had found a challenging and thrilling purpose and was finally being recognized for her talents and not just for her looks.

"Della, I don't do well alone. I like being married. Besides, I want more kids. The boys need a little sister."

Della blanched. Marriage. Children. Had she ignored hints or even entire conversations? Why didn't she know he wanted to marry and have children with her? She pushed the ring across the checked tablecloth with one finger. "I think you should put this back in your pocket," she said quietly.

Rodger stared at her, a dumbfounded expression on his face. "Are you turning me down?"

"Yes, Rodger, I'm turning you down. I had no idea you thought we were headed toward marriage, especially not so soon after your divorce."

"How could you have no idea? We've been sleeping together for five months!"

"Shhhhh! Keep it down," she hissed. She didn't dare look around to see if anyone was listening. "A lot of people sleep together and don't get married."

Rodger slumped against the booth. "I don't."

Della was stunned. She was intimate with this man but didn't know him at all. "Rodger, I honestly had no idea. I – I'm very fond of you, but I don't want to marry you right now. I've only been in Los Angeles for a year and I just started my job a few weeks ago –"

"You're turning me down because of your _**job**_?" Rodger's voice rose incredulously. "You would rather work as a secretary than be my wife?

Della straightened her back. "It's not just my job," she said evenly. "It's a lot of things, beginning with the fact that not once since you threw that ring across the table have you said you love me."

"That goes without saying," he replied earnestly, suddenly leaning forward and covering her hands with his.

"No," she disagreed, "it doesn't."

"Good Lord, Della, don't you know actions speak louder than words?"

"When it comes to marriage proposals, words are everything, Rodger. You've given me nothing but tired masculine clichés."

Rodger tightened his grip on her hands. "I'm not a poetry reciting kind of man, for crying out loud."

"I'm not asking for a Shakespearean sonnet, Rodger. Just tell me you love me."

"All right then. I love you."

Her smile was slow and a trifle sad. "No, you don't."

Rodger threw his hands up in the air disgustedly. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to take me home where we can continue this conversation in private."

Rodger scowled at her. "The plan was to take you home and celebrate our engagement."

"That's not going to happen tonight, Rodger. We have a lot to talk about, and as lovely as _Luigi's_ is, I would feel more comfortable having our discussion in my apartment."

He gave a snort and pushed himself across the seat of the booth and jumped to his feet. "You sit tight. I need to visit the men's room. If you see that sneaky little waiter, get the drink check." He turned on his heel and hurriedly wove his way around tables toward the rear of the restaurant.

Della sighed and leaned against the back of the booth, thoroughly fatigued. Her ankle was still a bit swollen and the bump on her head was beginning to throb from the strain of the past couple of days. Rodger's proposal was an unexpected complication in her life, piling on top of her encounters with Miss Cavanaugh and the niggling fear that the estimable lady attorney might yet convince Mr. Mason to weigh anchor and follow her to Denver, leaving her without a job.

When Rodger didn't return after five minutes, she attempted to sit forward in order to flag down Gianni, but was stopped by a slight tug at her hair. She tried to move her head, but again felt the tug and realized that her hair must be caught somehow on the booth seat. Utterly exasperated at being in yet another little predicament and unable to move her head but a scant inch, she tried to reach back with her hands to free herself. As her fingers sought the tumbled curls Rodger had set free in the taxi, her hair was suddenly released from whatever had been restraining it, and she lurched forward, almost smashing face-first into the table top.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Perry Mason had always enjoyed spending time with Willard and Elizabeth Cavanaugh, but tonight he found their company nearly unbearable as the dinner conversation revolved around primarily three subjects: Laura's impending move to Denver, redecorating their Malibu beach house, and his secretary.

Laura was relentless in her criticism of Della – clothing, hair style, physical attributes, moral character – nothing escaped her scorn. Vehement denunciation of Della's suitability to manage Perry's practice and outraged censure of her involvement with a married man drew raised eyebrows and furtive disappointed glances in his direction from Elizabeth Cavanaugh. He kept his protests low key, calming himself with alcohol and tobacco, withdrawing into himself to seethe at Laura's cattiness. When he looked at her he saw nothing of the beautiful, sophisticated, accomplished attorney he admired so much. What he saw instead repelled him, and if he didn't have so much respect for the years of close association with the Cavanaghs he would have abandoned them without a second thought. Willard and Elizabeth, usually level-headed and reproachful in regard to their daughter's behavior, merely absorbed the invective and accepted it at face value, bitterly disappointing Perry.

He knew Della Street was not the cheap, scheming woman of loose morals that Laura wanted her to be. And damn it, he rather liked the way she dressed. Her clothing was pretty and feminine. He looked forward each morning to seeing what outfit she wore, and how she'd decided to arrange her hair. So what if her dress was two years old and she wore barrettes. She worked tirelessly, made dictation pleasant, and his clients appreciated her professional efficiency. He never tired of watching her impossibly graceful movements, utterly charmed by the unselfconsciousness of her bearing.

She was a witty, intelligent conversationalist, curious about everything, and able to offer pithy comment about even the most obscure subjects. He felt at ease in her presence. He could speak his mind without pause and cuss like a stevedore without worrying about offending her.

Just a few days ago he thought he didn't know much about Della Street, but at this moment he felt he knew her better than he knew Laura. Della wouldn't target another person with such contempt, wouldn't attempt to make them appear insignificant or unworthy. He also knew there must be a reasonable explanation why she was dating a married man, if indeed she was. To say that didn't bother him a bit would be lying, but just as he had faith in her abilities to manage his practice, he had faith in her personal choices, however deflating they may be.

Deflated. He decided that was a good term to describe how he felt as desert and after dinner drinks were served. Elizabeth was out of stories about her tyrannical interior decorator, which gave Laura the opportunity to bring up the unprofessional telephone conversation she had witnessed between Della and Paul Drake's operator, and how Della had presumed to drink Perry's alcohol after hours in his private office.

As Laura ascribed words and actions to his secretary that he knew Della would never say or do, the anger and hurt that had built up in him for months as he sought to salvage their relationship slowly drained from him, to be replaced by an exhausted calm. He pushed his half-finished cognac away from him, no longer needing its numbing effects. Laura's ignorantly inappropriate remarks about Della clarified everything for him, finalizing a decision he had hoped to avoid, one that would take his life in a direction more suited to his beliefs and talents.

Later, as he said his good-bye's to Willard and Elizabeth, he wondered if they realized it was more than likely the last time they would ever see him.

* * *

><p>Laura clung to Perry's arm as they stood at the curb waiting for the valet to arrive with Perry's car. Her dark eyes glittered with excitement as she chattered about the next stop on their night on the town, a recently opened nightclub where she had arranged to meet a large group of friends for an impromptu going-away party in her honor. The in-demand club boasted a well-known orchestra and guest vocalist, sparse modern Lucite decorations, and walls covered by reflective paper in icy shades of blue and silver. Puny, outrageously expensive cocktails were served by busty women in scanty satin costumes. Laura was wild about the club, as was half of Hollywood. She hoped to see more than one major celebrity tonight, and maybe, just maybe, one or two would join her party.<p>

Perry's shiny black Cadillac swung around the corner and came to a screeching halt in front of them. The valet jumped from behind the wheel, ran around the back, and opened the passenger door for Laura with a grand flourish, ignoring the disapproving glower from Perry Mason as he slid behind the wheel.

Laura maintained a running monologue about those who would be in attendance at the gathering, prepping Perry on acceptable topics of conversation and bringing him up-to-date on the lives of her friends. Greg had recently been promoted to Executive Vice President at his father's firm; Cynthia was expecting again; Joe had caught Alice kissing his brother at their nephew's wedding two weeks ago and were unofficially separated; Eddie hadn't asked Marilyn to marry him yet, even though he'd admitted to Charles that he'd bought a ring; Catherine had finally listened to everyone and dumped that horrible little man she had been seeing and was bringing a new gentleman friend as her escort.

Perry pretended to listen. He didn't intend to do much talking tonight, he never really did when they spent time with this particular circle of friends. For the most part he found her friends uninteresting and self-centered, privileged children of wealthy parents with little or no ambition. Laura had enough ambition for the lot of them, something he had found intriguing about her, considering the social circles she ran in. Her ambitions and accomplishments had attracted him originally, and sustained their relationship for years, but lately he had begun to see them as serious flaws in her make-up, pushing her headlong into areas of law and politics that he had no use for.

The nightclub was located on Hollywood Boulevard, lit with spotlights and flashing blue neon. Perry patiently waited in line, creeping slowly forward as an overtaxed corps of parking valets dispatched the cars ahead of him to surrounding side streets. He handed his keys and a tip to a breathless young man who was sweating profusely from the late summer heat and the steady stream of arrivals and departures of patrons. He assisted Laura from the car, and cupping her elbow with his hand, propelled her toward the mirrored doors of the club.

Inside the air was cool, smoke-filled, tinted a soft shade of blue. Huge Lucite prisms suspended from the ceiling with fishing line glowed eerily in the soft light, swaying softly as air circulated around them. Laura spied her friends immediately, gathered around pub tables in a corner of the club that had been roped off for privacy. She grabbed Perry's hand and half-dragged him to the gathering, eager to officially begin the party.

Almost immediately Perry knew he wasn't going to enjoy himself. After the women ceased shrieking their greetings and the men dispensed chaste kisses to Laura's cheeks, he dutifully shook hands with the men, gave his drink order to a zaftig cocktail waitress, settled himself atop a supremely uncomfortable Lucite stool, and lit a cigarette. Laura had moved to the opposite end of the roped off area, where she was holding court with her women friends, expressively punctuating her words with broad hand motions. Bursts of laughter cut through the din of the club, including the conversation of the abandoned men of the party, which centered on the extreme pulchritude of the waitresses and the probability of the skimpy costumes to contain it.

He sat for what seemed like hours, never really entering the masculine conversation surrounding him, merely nodding in agreement and laughing occasionally so as not to be perceived as completely rude. Two cocktails down, he decided it was time to visit the men's room and check in with his service. From long association he knew it best to inform Laura of his intentions or suffer consequences, so he dropped to the floor from the rump-numbing stool and made his way toward the corner where the women had taken up residence.

"She wears cotton shirtwaist dresses, for Heaven's sake," he heard Laura say in a tone nearly an octave above her normal speaking voice. "Would you believe the dress she wore out to dinner tonight was yellow dotted Swiss!" She broke into derisive laughter that the other women heartily joined.

"Laura," he barked, a furious heat rising in him. "Shut up." He felt the eyes of her male friends on his back, curious about his sudden outburst.

She jumped and turned to him, annoyed by his interruption, stunned by his command. "What did you say?"

"I said _**shut up**_. As of this moment the topic of Della Street is officially off limits. To my discredit I didn't say anything about your cattiness during dinner, but I won't stand for it another moment. You know absolutely nothing about Della and have no business talking about her like that. She's the best secretary I've ever had and I intend to do everything I can to make sure she remains my secretary for a long time. If you mention her name just one more time, I will walk out."

The women shifted uncomfortably in their molded Lucite chairs while the men alternately cleared their throats and coughed behind him. They had never heard Perry speak to Laura like that. He had kept to himself in their presence, sitting in the background listening and watching, whether uncomfortable in their company or unwilling to put forth the effort to join their conversations they didn't know. What they did know about him was almost solely through Laura and various news articles about his notorious legal exploits. His declaration that he intended to keep this Della Street woman his secretary for a long as possible confused them, as they were all under the impression that he would be closing his practice and moving to Denver with Laura. Laura had been telling them that their partnerships were confirmed, and that she expected to make a major announcement any day. When she had called to organize this party, they had assumed the announcement would be made tonight, and this it would be in regard to an engagement.

Laura stared at Perry in disbelief. "Don't you tell me to shut up, Perry," she flung at him, rising to her feet and taking a step toward him. "And don't you dare walk out on me. I'm not the one who foolishly hired a sow's ear of a secretary and is trying to convince himself she's a silk purse."

She stood before him, a tiny, angry woman brilliantly disguising the sheer mortification of having been spoken to in such a manner in front of her friends. If she wasn't so well-bred and contained she would slap him.

"My God, Laura," he said in a strangled voice. "Have you always been this awful?" He turned his back on her, stepped over the velvet rope and headed for the exit.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Della flagged down Gianni and paid for the cocktails, unnecessarily mentioning that her companion was feeling ill and unfortunately they would be leaving. As she counted out a tip that exceeded the bill, she also suggested that the booth divider be examined, because something must be loose and her hair had been caught. Gianni nodded, replied "You betcha, Miss," and in the blink of an eye disappeared completely into the crowd of diners and waiters thronging the dimly lit restaurant.

Rodger emerged from the restroom to discover her standing alongside the booth, running her hand over the top of the booth divider, a small frown wrinkling her brow. She turned as he touched her lightly on the arm. "Was there someone sitting in this booth?"

Rodger shrugged and glanced at the uncleared table where a half-full glass of wine and a long basket containing Luigi's delectable loaf of garlic bread sat abandoned. "A woman by herself. I didn't pay much attention to her. Why don't we take her bread with us?"

Della hoped his suggestion was facetious and ignored it. "Something grabbed my hair. I thought it had gotten caught between the upholstered cushion and the booth back, but nothing is loose."

Rodger shrugged again, longingly eying the loaf of garlic bread from which only one slice had been cut. He was famished. A piece of bread would save him from certain starvation. However, he didn't see the serrated stainless bread knife customarily provided to cut the bread anywhere on the table. With a resigned sigh he took hold of Della's arm and tugged. "C'mon. If we're going to leave, let's leave. I don't know if I can keep my humiliation under cover much longer."

They escaped the restaurant without encountering Luigi, and once outside Rodger easily hailed a taxicab. His behavior on the drive to Della's apartment was very different than on the ride to Luigi's. He batted away her every attempt to touch him and sat forward on the edge of the seat. Trying to engage him in conversation was no more successful as he replied in monosyllables or not at all. She finally sighed dramatically and slid away to sit back in the corner of the seat against the door and regard his profile with narrowed eyes. He continued to sit stiffly upright, staring straight ahead, hands folded in his lap, and didn't react to anything, not even her directions to the driver to stop at the Chinese restaurant two blocks from her apartment. She climbed out of the taxi without a word to him and returned several minutes later with two take-out oyster pail containers and a pasteboard cup of fragrant soup, which she placed on the seat between them. She sat stiffly upright on the edge of the seat, aping his posture. He gave no indication that he noticed her.

The cab pulled to a stop in front of her building and Della once again let herself out of the cab without assistance. Carrying the containers of food in both hands, she walked slowly up the heavily landscaped walkway toward the front entrance of her building. She stopped two steps shy of the door next to an overgrown bush and turned to make sure Rodger had actually exited the cab and was paying the driver. Seeing him jump to the curb and return his wallet to his pocket made her smile and she moved her foot to pivot back toward the entrance when a hand emerged from behind the bush and grabbed a fistful of her hair, stopping her in her tracks. She immediately dropped the food containers onto the pavement, causing the soup container to burst and piping hot liquid to splatter over her feet and lower legs. She slipped on the mess of Chinese food but managed to remain upright by grabbing at the spindly arms that held her hair. She felt the tugging ease, then a sawing type of pressure, and her head snapped forward. Too stunned to utter a sound, her hand flew to the back of her head as she twisted her upper body toward a rustling noise in the landscaping.

"I warned you," a disembodied voice from the bushes said calmly. "You didn't listen when I said you didn't know who you were dealing with."

* * *

><p>Rodger turned away from the taxicab just in time to see Della nearly slip on the Chinese food spilling from open containers on the pavement. For a fleeting moment he saw the pinched and pale face of the woman who had been seated in the booth behind Della at <em>Luigi's<em>, the glint of a long knife as it was moved across her hair, and Della's hands clasp the back of her head. The woman threw the knife to the ground and vanished behind the cover of the overgrown landscaping, into the encroaching darkness of the evening.

In a few swift strides Rodger covered the expanse of pavement between himself and Della. He engulfed her in his arms, holding her against his chest as she began to shake uncontrollably. "My God, Della, are you all right? Are you hurt? What did she do to you?"

Della still clutched at the back of her head, a few dissected curls caught between trembling fingers. "Sh-sh-she cut my hair! She used that knife to cut my hair! Don't pick it up!" She nearly screamed at Rodger as he released her and bent to pick up the metallic object the woman had left behind. He recoiled sharply at her tone.

He pulled her to him once more, patting her shoulder. "Babe, it's okay. I'll leave it for the police to deal with." He moved them forward a few steps and began banging on the locked glass door until the building's secruity guard appeared. Recognizing Della, he opened the door.

"Miss Street! What happened?"

Rodger answered for Della. "Call the police. Miss Street has been attacked."

* * *

><p>Della refused to positively name the woman who had cut her hair, although she was fairly certain who it had been, and despite the fact the police were highly frustrated with her. She sensed it in their posture, in the shortness of their questions. She didn't want to go to headquarters, insisting that her statement at the scene would be sufficient to file a report. Rodger supplied as much of a description as possible of the woman who had been seated behind Della at <em>Luigi's,<em> because as it turned out, the knife used to cut Della's hair was the same type of serrated stainless bread knife Luigi served with his garlic bread. After forty-five minutes of pictures and questions and statements, the two uniformed officers and the building security guard left Della and Rodger alone in her apartment.

Rodger closed and locked the door behind the retreating officers and rejoined Della on the couch. He had poured her a stiff scotch on the rocks earlier, daring the officers to protest his prescription of alcohol during their questioning. They kept quiet as Della gratefully sipped the drink, the visible trembling of her hands lessening, her voice growing stronger with each sip. She was still holding the drink in her hand, her head tilted against the back of the couch, eyes closed. She hadn't cried, hadn't become hysterical, hadn't made accusations or offered any explanation why someone would jump out at her and take a slice of her hair. She looked a fright, pale and drawn, her soft curls hopelessly disheveled from the officer's inspection, her expression a shocked blank.

He touched her hand gently. "Are you positive you aren't hurt? I can call Dr. Rutherford and have him come over."

She opened one eye and then closed it again with a sigh. "I'm fine. The only thing cut was my hair."

"How about your feet? Did the soup burn you?" One hand traveled up her forearm in a massaging motion while the other settled on her waist.

She opened both eyes this time and lifted her legs to inspect the damage to her shoes and stockings. "No burns. But my shoes are ruined."

"Shoes can be replaced. And your hair will grow back."

She swung tired eyes to his. "Yes, hair does grow back. I'll have to go to the beauty parlor tomorrow first thing and have Evelyn fix it."

Rodger smiled wanly. "Tell her not to cut off too much more. I like long hair." The hand at her waist moved upward to lightly brush against her breast.

"She'll cut off as much as necessary to make me look decent." She toyed with a single three-inch ringlet the police had left behind after bagging most of her severed locks for evidence. "it could have been much worse. I think slipping on the spilled food may have saved most of my hair."

"How fast does your hair grow? Promise me you'll tell Evelyn not to cut off too much. I can't imagine you with short hair." He leaned in to nuzzle her neck, rubbing his face against the silken curls at the side of her head.

She pushed him away and stood up abruptly to begin pacing the room, agitation apparent in her gait and tone. "I don't know how fast my hair grows. I get it trimmed every six weeks or so. It's been shoulder length almost my entire life. Any longer and I can't control it."

Rodger watched her pace. "You sure look funny with your hair all fluffed out like that," he said at last. It was an attempt to get a reaction out of her. He liked it when he could breach her good natured calmness and unleash her temper. It made their bedroom activities so lively.

"I'm quite sure I do," she replied matter-of-factly. She had calmed down considerably since the incident. She wondered what the proper reaction was to having someone jump out from behind a bush in front of your apartment building and slice off your hair. Should she laugh it off, or cry, or cuss? Mr. Mason had taught her a couple new words recently in a violent reaction to an unexpected counter suit, and she'd been dying to try them out. Rodger was obviously attempting to make her laugh or cuss, but for some reason his efforts only made her cross.

"You know what I think?" Rodger was becoming concerned about her relative lack of response to what had happened to her as she continued to pace around the living room, occasionally reaching up and touching the ragged remains of the hair at the back of her head.

"I already know what you think. You think I look funny."

"You do. Go look at yourself in a mirror. But I also think you should take a shower and then let me have my way with you."

She ceased pacing and stared at him. "I hardly think that is a good idea, Rodger. Have you forgotten you proposed tonight and I turned you down? Combined with the fact that I've just been relieved of about three inches of hair and spent the better part of an hour giving a statement to the police, I'm not exactly in a mood to fool around. And let's not even revisit Miss Cavanaugh opening the door on my head or making me late for our date or how I twisted my ankle. This hasn't been a good week for me. I'd like a hug, just a hug, nothing more."

"Forgive me for wanting to give you a little affection," he replied with just a hint of sarcasm.

"What you're suggesting is a whole lot of affection, Rodger, and I'm not sure I'm up to it."

"I've had a rough night myself you know. My proposal shot down, witnessing that woman attcking you, no dinner. A roll in the hay might just be just what the doctor ordered, and if I'm good enough, you might rethink my proposal." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Rodger, sex isn't going to change my mind about marrying you. I told you I'm not ready to get married. Furthermore, I don't know if I'll **_ever_ **be ready to get married. I need you to be sympathetic right now, not lecherous. Could you just sit on the couch and hold me?"

Rodger ducked his head contritely. "I can do that. If that's all you really want."

That's all she really wanted. But that wasn't all she got.

* * *

><p>Della pushed Rodger off the couch and onto the floor sometime between one and two so that he could go home and get a few hours sleep before having to pick up his sons at eight. She rarely let him stay the entire night, preferring to sleep alone and wanting him to get a bit of sleep himself before having to deal with three boys under the age of ten. He covered her with the robe she'd donned after showering, playfully slapped her behind, and then let himself out of the apartment. Della pulled the robe around her shoulders, snuggling deeper into the cushions, too tired even to crawl to the bedroom. She dozed fitfully for several hours, awakening just after seven. Sitting up groggily, she ran her hands through hair still slightly damp from her shower, appalled at the tangled mess of curls. A thorough inspection last night before stepping into the shower had revealed the loss of approximately three inches of hair at the nape of her neck. Not a tragic amount of length gone, but the knife had cut raggedly and a haircut was definitely needed to repair the damage.<p>

She fixed herself an egg over easy on toast, sat down at the little bistro table by the window in the kitchen and ate while watching two orange striped cats forage for food in the alley, pondering whether she should give in to tears about every little thing that had befallen her in the past couple of days or simply "buck up" as Aunt Mae would tell her.

It was nearly eight forty-five when Della finally hoisted herself from the little bistro chair and wandered into the living room to call her hairdresser at home. After arranging an emergency appointment for ten o'clock, she called her friend Janet, who was more than happy to drive her to the appointment. Della was standing on the curb at nine thirty, a brightly colored scarf wrapped around her head, waiting and smoking a cigarette when Janet pulled up in a dull green Fleetline. Della tugged on the door and hopped into the spacious front seat.

"Lord Della! Is it so bad that you have to wrap your head up like a mummy?"

Della laughed, glad to see Janet, glad that she had agreed to take her to her appointment with Evelyn, glad that she had someone to talk to about the events of the past few days other than Rodger. "It's not as bad as it could have been. The scarf is mostly because I went to bed with wet hair and it's sticking up in all directions. I'm just glad Rodger left in the dark. He thought I looked funny last night right after it happened. He'd be downright hysterical if he saw me when I woke up." She frowned slightly. "He kept begging me to ask Evelyn to cut off as little as possible. I didn't realize he was so obsessed with the length of my hair."

"Rodger is obsessed with your looks, period," Janet commented. "He's shallow, Del. He's impressed with how your dark hair and eyes complement his light hair and eyes; how men envy him, how women envy you when you're together. If you weren't bsolutely gorgeous, he wouldn't give you the time of day."

"That's rather harsh, Janet. Rodger is intelligent, well-spoken, and funny. We get along quite well." She wouldn't admit it to Janet, but she had long suspected that while Rodger certainly appreciated her for her personality, it was her physical attributes that drove his desire, what he appreciated most. Several derogatory things he had said about his wife's physical change over twelve years of marriage bothered her, but she had convinced herself his comments were merely a reaction to Susan's affair and subsequent divorce action.

"He's a pill," Janet remarked.

Della started. Paul Drake had used that term to describe Laura Cavanaugh, and Della's recent experiences had supported it. Knowing that Janet found Rodger to be as unsavory as Mr. Drake found Miss Cavanaugh was disconcerting. "What would you say if I told you Rodger proposed to me last night?"

Janet took her eyes off the road to look incredulously at Della. "You didn't actually accept, did you?"

"You sound like Mr. Mason, answering a question with a question. Answer my question first, then I'll answer yours."

"What would I say? I'd say run away, girl! Please tell me you didn't accept."

Della sighed. "Don't worry, I didn't accept. You know how I feel about marriage."

"I do. Although I think the right man will change your mind some day."

"Not a chance," Della denied vehemently.

Janet executed a perfect parallel parking manuever in a conveniently empty space in front of the shop just as Evelyn was unlocking the door. Once inside, Della removed the scarf and allowed her two friends to tsk-tsk over the damage for a few moments before brusquely moving toward Janet's assigned salon chair and seating herself.

"Let's get this over with," she said told Evelyn.

The hair dresser placed a protective cape around Della's shoulders and stood back, eyeing the raggedly shorn section of hair critically. "What should we do," she mused.

"Cut it," Della directed decisively. "Cut it short."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Laura ran after Perry, caught up to him in the expansive reception area, and pulled him behind an enormously ugly Lucite sculpture resting atop a box papered inexplicitly with aluminum foil. As convincingly close to tears as he had ever seen her, contrite and cajoling, she pressed her lush curves against him.

"Perry darling, I'm so, so sorry. I haven't behaved very well tonight, have I? But you have to see it from my perspective. You didn't tell me you'd hired a new secretary, and when I opened the door and found her on the floor of your office, well, Perry darling, it didn't look quite proper in my eyes. You've done nothing but extol her virtues to anyone who will listen, and I can't help it if I have some misgivings about her suitability to manage something as important as your practice." Tears glittered in her eyes.

"Laura," he began.

"Perry," she countered, her lip quivering.

She was good. Perry had to hand it to her. She knew exactly how to get to him. Women cried in front of him all the time – clients and witnesses alike – but to be the cause of a woman's tears tore him up. He knew her words were false, that she didn't give a hang about his practice, but he followed her back to the party anyway. As he reached for the velvet rope at their particular corner of the nightclub, he bent down to her, his face mere inches from hers.

"I'm serious, Laura. If you mention Della one more time I will walk out and no amount of fake tears will bring me back."

She hopped up onto her toes and kissed him. "I promise, Perry darling. The name Della Street will not pass my lips one more time this evening."

He unhooked the rope barrier and stood aside to let her pass. "There are no loopholes or capitulation in this, Laura. Referring to her as "my secretary" or "that woman" or whatever code word you might come up with isn't acceptable either. Got it?"

She widened her eyes in a studied look of innocence. "Got it."

Laura stayed glued to his side, hands clasped possessively around his arm, through two floor shows and seemingly endless rounds of cocktails. Perry was annoyed when she decided that the party should continue at her apartment, handing him an obscene bar tab as she spread the word and invited eight people to squeeze into his car. Arms and legs protruded from open windows as Perry drove back streets across the city from the nightclub to Laura's modern penthouse apartment.

Perry knew Laura's apartment almost better than he knew his own, and quickly made himself comfortable on the couch in the sunken living room with a very large scotch on the rocks, waving aside her insistance that he act as host and tend the bar. Charles turned on the record player LOUD and several couples began to dance among packing boxes scattered around the apartment as Eddie jumped behind the bar and set out all of Laura's liquor. A poker game broke out at the dining room table. A few of the dancing couples began to neck. Women abandoned by their poker playing husbands and/or boyfriends gathered in the living room around him, tossing back vodka martinis faster than Eddie could make them, and conversing in front of him as if he didn't exist. Within an hour he had smoked through half a pack of cigarettes and learned more about the inner workings of the female body than he cared to know.

When Laura suggested that the party continue at her place, Perry hadn't expected thirty-odd party crashers to follow them from the club. He recognized a couple of B-movie actors, a judge, a state representative, an assistant distric attorney, and a peroxide blonde starlet whom, oddly enough, Paul Drake had dated several months prior. Laura was in her element, bustling around the expansive apartment, making sure everyone had plenty to drink. Occasionally she would slide into Perry's lap to nuzzle his neck, shrugging when he asked when everyone would be leaving so they could be alone, and then she'd be off again to tend to her hostessing duties. At just after four a.m. Perry snuck away from the still-raucous partiers and let himself into Laura's bedroom. He stripped to boxers and t-shirt, splashed cold water on his face, brushed his teeth, and settled onto "his" side of the bed with a book to await Laura, fully expecting her to hunt him down once she realized he was missing.

Laura watched Perry enter her bedroom and close the door. She longed to follow him, to feels his arms around her, surrendering to the sensations only he could bring to her body, but she hadn't spent nearly enough time with Representative Collins and his wife, and Judge Sizemore looked like he could use a fresh drink. She had also promised a pack of her French cigarettes to that tall blonde actress, and Greg wanted her to play his cards while he danced with that blonde starlet.

Perry lost the battle to stay awake thirty minutes later just as Laura wiped out the poker pot with a straight heart flush.

* * *

><p>Perry carefully peeled back the covers and easily slipped out of the bed. Satin sheets were perfect for hasty exits.<p>

He stole a look over his shoulder as he dressed noiselessly, not recalling when she had left a jumble of clothing on the coverlet and joined him in bed. She slept flat on her back, hands folded on her belly. She could sleep that way the entire night without moving while he tossed and turned incessantly. For all the passion they shared, Laura was not one to sleep entwined in her lover's arms, and after passion was spent would almost immediately assume that prim position.

Dressed except for his shoes, Perry shot one more glance at Laura's tiny form in her gargantuan bed and let himself out of her palatial bedroom. Once the door closed behind him, he indulged in a huge sigh. He tiptoed around the maze of packing boxes stacked in the living room, as well as the passed out form of Charles – or possibly Eddie – sinking down upon the couch to tie his shoes. Task accomplished, he found himself surveying the familiar apartment with sadness. He had spent a lot of time in this apartment with Laura, both alone and as a couple at the elaborate parties she was partial to hosting. The imminent vacancy of the expansive apartment affected him more than he thought it would. The horrible, terrible, mortifying truth was that he realized he would miss the apartment as much as it's occupant.

Before falling asleep he'd reminded himself of the decision made the previous evening at dinner. He couldn't remain in a relationship with her any longer. The constant squabbles and tense undertone of their conversations, the numbing amount of alcohol consumed to dull the hurt, the out-of-control, mindless, insatiate lovemaking that inevitably capped their battles, and finally her ignorant, mean-spirited gossiping about Della, had broken him. He had to escape, had to follow his brand of law just as she felt compelled to follow hers. Their differences, the very elements that had worked in their favor for so many years, had irrevocably pushed them apart.

It would be impossible to repair the damage they'd inflicted on one another over the past six months and attempt a long-distance relationship. The only aspect of their life seemingly untouched by vitriol was their passion, and passion simply wasn't enough to sustain them across the miles between Denver and Los Angeles. Especially when each passionate encounter left him feeling bereaved and empty.

He had to leave now, before she woke up. She would be furious, but he couldn't stay a moment longer, miserably unable to reach her or be reached.

He would call her. It was cowardly and he was monumentally ashamed of himself, but ending their relationship face-to-face would expose him to the blistering passion she had for him, and he wasn't sure if he could control his physical responses right now.

Even if Laura wasn't moving to Denver he would have to leave like this, quietly while she slept. Their lives were not moving in the same direction, and possibly never had been. He knew with certainty where his future lay, where he would be happy and fulfilled and it wasn't with Laura, whether in Los Angeles or Denver.

In the silence of his automobile, driving the route to his apartment he had driven hundreds of times over the years, he felt mournful, but relieved. Laura would be fine without him in Denver. And he would be fine without her in Los Angeles. In the past few weeks he had felt the resurgent thrill of plying his trade, was again reveling in the excitement of manipulating the law to suit his purpose in defense of his clients. His calling, his purpose in life was criminal law. Laura didn't understand his dedication to his clients, his all-out methods of securing acquittal. The notoriety of his cases seemed to embarrass her, because it was the wrong kind of notoriety within the social class she inhabited, a social class he couldn't possibly function within.

He was not and could never be the corporate lawyer she wanted him to be, content to sit at a desk, buried in acquisitions and mergers. He couldn't imagine sitting on innumerable boards of directors, aspiring for public office, or chairing Bar Association holiday party committees as Laura did. And that was fine. The world needed lawyers who performed such duties. The world also needed lawyers who were unafraid to test the boundaries of the law, and to champion the spirit of the law as well as the law itself.

For a while he had lost his way and actually considered following Laura to Denver.

But that was before a dark-haired beauty whose smile dimmed the sun walked through his office door.

In just two short months Della had become his escape from the insidious doldrums he had been unable to shake on his own. Her calm approach to life counteracted the disarray of his guilty and agonized thoughts, and it was her dedication to his practice that dropped the final marble onto the scale and tipped it irrevocably in favor of staying in Los Angeles.

He wanted to be a criminal attorney, in Los Angeles, with Della as his secretary. It was that simple.

* * *

><p>His phone was ringing as he let himself into his apartment thirty minutes later. Laura had more than likely woken up and found him gone. He thought hard about not picking it up, but avoiding her calls would be even more cowardly than sneaking out of her apartment as she slept.<p>

He picked up the receiver and brought it to his ear tentatively. "Hello."

"Finally!" Paul Drake shouted. "Why the hell do you pay my inflated rates for a twenty-four hour answering service if you never call to check in?"

The little set-to with Laura at the nightclub had interrupted his intended check-in with Paul Drake's night operator. He sighed. "I was busy last night."

"Don't give me that. You were with Laura and she wouldn't let you call. How is the little viper anyway?"

Perry was too mentally exhausted to challenge Paul's dislike of Laura. His good friend had never warmed to her, and made no bones about the fact he thought Perry could do better than a "power-hungry, mean-spirited, self-centered witch" like Laura. Laura was equally vocal about her animosity toward Paul, usually greeting him with a caustic "Dick" in reference to his profession, while he'd referred to her as "Broomhilda" to her face on more than one occasion.

"I'm tired, Paul. Has something developed with Ronald Avery?"

"That one is still stalled with no evidence, although the police are hinting about something explosive being vetted. All a bunch of guff they put out there to make it seem like they're on top of things. I'm actually calling about what I picked up on the hotline about a certain Miss Della Street."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Perry listened intently as Paul related events of the previous evening up to when a woman jumped out the bushes, brandishing a bread knife, and cut his secretary's hair as she was about to enter her apartment house.

"Do they know who it was?" He asked. His voice sounded strangled and shaky to his ears.

"That's what's got the police all in a dither. They swear Della knows who attacked her, but refuses to name them. The fellow she was with, one Rodger Eastlund, gave a sketchy description, but nothing concrete enough to make an identification."

"If she was still with Eastlund, how is it this woman got the jump on Della?"

"Della had gone up the walkway ahead of Eastlund, who was paying off the cab driver. He turned just in time to catch a glimpse of the woman, who he says he remembers being seated in the booth behind Della at _Luigi's_. Police interviewed Luigi and his two nephews Vittorio and Gianni. They can't add much to Eastlund's description, and no one saw her leave the restaurant." Perry's comment had not escaped his trained ear. "Why did you ask if she was _**still**_ with Eastlund? Do you already know about what happened last night?"

"Laura and I dropped Della off at the _Blue Swan Inn _last night. Rodger Eastlund was waiting for her outside the restaurant. We exchanged a few words." Why would Della meet Eastlund at the _Blue Swan _then go to _Luigi's_?

Paul was silent for a moment. "So you met the mystery man, Rodger Eastlund."

"What do you mean, the mystery man?" He remembered Laura's observation that Rodger Eastlund was married. Was Della really seeing a married man? Was he comforting her right now?

"That's what the security guard calls Eastlund. Seems he's been a regular visitor every Friday night and Sunday afternoon for the past five months or so. He never picks her up at her apartment. They arrive together in a taxi, and he leaves alone."

"How long does he stay?" Perry couldn't hold back the question, but didn't really want to know the answer.

"The guard, Tom Perce is his name, says Eastlund usually leaves before midnight. Walks out the front door, down the street, and around the corner. Perce thinks he calls a taxi from an all-night diner or a phone booth on the next street over. Perce also thinks Eastlund is married."

"So does Laura," Perry admitted reluctantly. He had been convinced last night that he knew Della's character better than he knew Laura's, even after hearing that she might be dating a married man. Right now he wasn't so sure. A huge component of his reasoning to remain in Los Angeles was Della and her impact on his practice, on him as a person. He hadn't for a moment considered the status of her personal life.

"The Wicked Witch of the West has met Della's paramour? Am I the only person in Los Angeles who hasn't?"

Perry sighed and rubbed his blooshot eyes tiredly. "Laura recognized him when we dropped off Della. He apparently is quite wealthy. His father founded something called the Eastlund Development Company."

"He's _**that**_ Eastlund?" Paul Drake whistled. "Our little Della is running with the big boys, Uncle Perry."

"Now I'm the only one left in the dark. I've never heard of Eastlund Development Company," Perry responded irritably.

"You would if you were a different kind of lawyer or a private detective. R. Andrew Eastlund made a killing on some speculative properties about five years back, and parlayed his windfall into seven of the prettiest little cookie cutter subdivsion developments you've ever seen. He's building the American Dream, Perry, and you can buy it for just $23,000. Private investigators all over the city are on contract right now with several big law firms building cases for shoddy workmanship, voided warranties, unpaid contractors, and property rights claims."

Perry slumped in his chair. As if worrying about the assault on Della wasn't draining enough, he now had this new information to worry about. What kind of a man was Della involved with? Was her attacker a disgruntled Eastlund Development Company home owner? But more importantly, how serious was Della about a married man being groomed to take over a suspicious family business?

"Would you like me to nose around a bit for anything on Rodger Eastlund?" Paul cleared his throat. "Or Della?"

Perry was thoughtfully silent for several seconds, mulling over Paul's question. He couldn't do it. He had to trust Della. She had stepped into his life and jerked him back onto the tracks. He couldn't repay her loyalty or betray her trust in him, not so early in what he hoped to be a long association. "No," he said heavily. "If it's any of my business, Della will tell me."

* * *

><p>Perry Mason stared at the phone. He didn't know her phone number.<p>

He couldn't remember the street she lived on, and the information operator could find no listing for a Della Street in Los Angeles. There were listings for a D.B., a D.K., a D.M. and a D.P. Street, but he had no idea what her middle name might be.

She carried his unlisted telephone number and address in her purse. He knew that because he had stood over her as she'd entered the numbers into a slim leather address book, insisting that she have them in case of an emergency. And she no doubt knew his middle name because she was that type of thorough. He should have insisted upon having her telephone number, should have looked at her middle name on her employment application, should have remembered what street her apartment house was on. She deserved more from him.

But then, he was merely her boss. It wasn't exactly proper for a boss to be privvy to such information, was it? He hadn't really known his previous secretary's **_first_** name let alone her middle, so why did it bother him that he had no idea what Della's full name was?

Because he cared about Della more than his previous secretary, that's why. Because she made him laugh and think and want to be a better person. Because she had endured Laura's thinly veiled insults with charm and grace and a loyalty to him he hoped someday to be worthy of accepting. Because she kind and lovely and he wanted to hear in her words, in her voice, that she was all right.

Paul Drake would surely have her home telephone number and address at his fingertips. But he couldn't call Paul back and ask for such information, and he couldn't overstep his bounds as her employer and show up at her doorstep. If she wanted him to know, she would tell him. He had to be satisfied with that.

To keep his mind off Della and her involvement with Rodger Eastlund, Perry began dialing Laura's number every half hour and letting it ring ten times before hanging up. She often ignored his calls without compunction when she felt slighted by him. It was a game she'd played many times over the years to punctuate her moods. In this particular instance he couldn't hold the game playing against her. Sneaking out as he had, with not even a scribbled note explaining his actions, he could only imagine how angry and hurt she must be. She was operating under the assumption that he would eventually follow her to Denver, that they still had a future together. His cowardly exit had no doubt knocked her back on her heels.

He had loved her once, but couldn't remember the last time he had spoken the words to her. A year ago in Acapulco? She called him "Perry darling". He hadn't called her anything but Laura in a long time. Had he stopped loving her a year ago, before all the enmity surrounding her announcement? Could all of the anguish of the past six months been avoided if he had simply been more observant about her?

He spent the rest of the afternoon and evening alone in his apartment slowly killing a bottle of scotch, dialing Laura's number over and over, wishing it could be Della's number. At midnight, bleary-eyed from alcohol, mentally exhausted from worrying about Della and being angry with Laura, he dropped into a fitful sleep on the couch.

Laura still hadn't picked up the phone by noon on Sunday and the forgiveness he had extended toward her phone game had devolved into a healthy disgust.

At one o'clock he pulled the extension phone from his bedside as close to the bathroom as possible and left the door open as he showered so he could hear it ringing. But she didn't call, not while he was in the shower, not while he dressed, and not while he fixed himself a sandwich.

He was in his car driving toward Laura's apartment by two o'clock, fuming at her for forcing him into a face-to-face confrontation when he had so wanted to take the cowardice route. His decision was made. He had to end it, had to put the past six months behind him and look forward to his future.

Her car was parked in her assigned space, which meant someone had driven her to the parking garage of his office building so she could retrieve it. He pulled into the space next to hers and took the elevator to the penthouse.

He knocked, rang the bell, called out to her. When she didn't open the door, he took out his key ring and inserted the duplicate she had given him three years ago after their first night spent together.

The apartment was still littered with remnants of the party, overflowing ashtrays, dirty glasses, and plates of shriveled olives covered every conceivable surface. The curtains were drawn, and as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw the red glow of a cigarette as Laura inhaled. "Shame on me for forgetting about your key," she said in a low, raspy voice. "When the calls stopped, I should have gotten up and slid the chain into place."

He advanced into the apartment to where she was curled on the couch in a silk robe, hair askew, face devoid of make-up, obviously not long out of bed. He sat down heavily next to her, but couldn't look at her. "I'm glad you didn't. We need to talk."

"No, we don't. I'm pretty sure I know what you're going to say. Your disappearing act yesterday morning was a flashing neon hint. Why don't you just leave the key on the table and let yourself out." She sucked loudly on the cigarette, expelling the smoke almost immediately through flared nostrils.

"Laura, I don't want us to end with a bad goodbye. It was wrong of me to leave like that yesterday, but I'm here now and I need to tell you a few things." He looked at her then, saw pain and anger in her hunched posture.

"I don't particularly want to listen while you try to convince yourself that ending our relationship and staying in Los Angeles is the right thing to do."

He placed his hand on her knee. All the raging emotions he'd dragged across town with him disappeared, and the lingering affection he felt for her surfaced. "It is the right thing to do. I haven't been happy for a long time, Laura. I tried so hard to salvage our relationship that I lost sight of my practice and of the reasons I became a lawyer. I was miserable, and I made you miserable. We want different things, you and I, and it wouldn't be right for either one of us to compromise our ideals. I'm a criminal lawyer. That's what I want to do, in Los Angeles. You are a talented negotiator. You want to enter politics, and if Denver offers you a better opportunity to live out your ambitions, then by all means you need to be in Denver."

She reached behind her and blindly sought the overflowing ashtray on the console table. "So this is it," she said blandly. "You go your way and I go mine?"

"This is it," he confirmed gently.

"Tell me Perry. How much of your decision was influenced by this new secretary of yours?"

All the fight was gone from him. He couldn't even muster reproach for this one last dig at Della. He also couldn't tell her the truth. "Only so much as she's saved my practice and freed me from routine matters so I can do what I do best." Properly evasive and perfectly noncommittal. He was quite pleased with himself.

"She's a regular little miracle worker." Laura sat forward and ran her hand up his chest. "If this is truly it, kiss me goodbye and trot along. I really must finish packing. The movers will be here bright and early tomorrow morning and I'm not nearly ready."

"I'll stay if you need help," he volunteered weakly. "Do you need a ride to the airport?"

She patted his chest. "No, you run along. I'll manage." She rested her forehead briefly against his shoulder. "Go. Go forth and defend, Perry Mason."

He tilted her chin with a finger and looked searchingly into her deep-set eyes. "I did love you," he said quietly, and kissed her forehead gently.

"I know you did," she replied, refusing to look at him. Pride wouldn't allow her to say what her heart was screaming.

He stood and turned to face her. She reached up her hand and he touched it briefly, and then he was gone.

Laura willed herself not to cry. She had done enough crying. She had to be tough to compete in the decidedly masculine profession she'd chosen. She was about to begin a new phase of her career and a broken relationship couldn't be allowed to affect her performance or get in the way of her dreams, even if the man in those dreams had just walked out the door after kissing her on the forehead like a sister.

A noise from the direction of the bedroom made her look up. Eddie emerged from behind a wall of packing boxes clad only in a towel wrapped around his waist, fresh from the shower. "Boy, am I glad the phone stopped ringing. That was really annoying." He plopped down next to her, unconcerned when the towel came untucked. "Who was just here? I heard a man's voice."

She regarded him with disinterest. "You heard wrong."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Della nervously ran her fingers through newly shortened curls and looked at the clock behind the diner's counter. Rodger was late. Rodger was never late. She knew he was most likely treating her to a dose of her own chronic lateness, which irked her to no end. Or maybe once the shock of the previous night's events had worn off, he remembered she had turned down his marriage proposal and was sulking, which irked her even more. Della didn't like to be around him when he sulked, and unfortunately she had been the root cause of several sulking episodes recently, which made their compacted time together quite uncomfortable.

Louise, her favorite waitress at the diner, silently re-filled her coffee and eased away from "their booth" on rubber-soled heels. Della had been meeting Rodger at this diner, in this booth, every Sunday afternoon at 3 p.m. for just over five months. Rodger was required to return his sons to their mother following a formal Sunday dinner at his parent's house, and he would join her for coffee and pie after getting the boys settled. Then they might catch a movie or a play, window shop downtown, or simply go to her apartment and fulfill mutual physical needs until she kicked him out so she could get a good night's sleep to begin the work week.

Maybe she should have called him yesterday to confirm that he would keep their regular Sunday date. But he didn't like her to call his apartment when the boys were there because his four year old son insisted upon answering all calls, and while his ex-wife knew about Della and Rodger knew about his ex-wife's boyfriend, they agreed to keep their new relationships hidden from the boys. So Della had gone about her day as if it were like any other Sunday, even though in reality so much had changed.

Beginning with her hair. Evelyn had taken a considerable amount of length from it, tamed the curls into soft waves that just grazed her collar, exposing impossibly high cheekbones, and wide-spaced sparkling eyes beneath sublimely arched brows. It would take time to adjust to her new look, to the absence of curls on her shoulders and around her face, but already she was pleased with the ease of care and the grown-up, sophisticated aura the cut gave her. She had told a small untruth on her employment application, adding three years to her age, and she felt the new cut supported that tiny subterfuge.

She knew Rodger quite possibly would be displeased, given his urging to tell Evelyn to "not take too much off" when she repaired the damage caused by Luigi's bread knife. But Rodger didn't have to live under her hair, didn't have to struggle every morning to be presentable enough to uphold Mr. Mason's professional image as a highly regarded defense attorney.

What the hell. She might as well admit it. She wanted to look presentable for the man himself.

She had never felt so appreciated, so trusted, so genuinely _**liked **_by a boss before. The latitude he had extended her in such short a period of time combined with the ease and humor of their conversations bolstered her confidence, pushing her to exceed any expectations he might have of her. The work was fascinating, challenging, exciting, and so very human. She wanted to remain Mr. Mason's secretary for as long as he would tolerate her.

Deep in thought about her job and her handsome boss, Della didn't notice that Rodger had arrived and was standing behind her, slack-jawed, until she felt a hand at her neck. Startled by the eerily similar sensation to when the knife sliced off her hair, she shrank into the booth in a defensive posture. "Rodger!"

"What the hell did Evelyn do to you, Della? You don't have any hair!" He slid into to booth seat opposite her. "Did she really have to cut so much off to fix it?"

Della prickled with irritation. "Evelyn did exactly what I told her to do."

Rodger waved at Louise to bring him a cup of coffee. "You _**told**_ her to cut it that short? Why would you do that?"

Della didn't answer as Louise placed a cup of coffee in front of Rodger and took their order for a large slice of apple pie a' la mode and two forks. When Louise was out of hearing range, she leaned forward. "Rodger, I have a very responsible job, and I need to present a more professional appearance. I think shorter hair makes me look older, more suitable for the position I hold."

"What are you talking about? You're a secretary! You sit at a desk. You answer the phone. You type. There's not a whole lot of responsibility connected to those _**skills**_." The last word literally dripped with sarcasm.

Della sat back against the booth. He couldn't have hurt her more if he had slapped her. "Is that what you think I do? You haven't listened to a word I've said about my job, have you?"

"I've listened enough, and I've indulged your little fantasy about how important that job is. But I want to get married, and frankly, I can't understand why you would choose being a secretary over being my wife, a mother, and a highly regarded member of society." He stopped talking when Louise appeared with their pie, and set the plate in the middle of the table so both of them could reach. She had served them enough pie to know they liked to share slices from one plate, often with fingers intertwined, staring into each other's eyes.

Della felt her face grow hot with humiliation. She had thought Rodger supported her and was happy that she had found a challenging, exciting job. He had always seemed so interested in her stories about Mr. Mason's clients, about all the tasks he had entrusted her with.

Rodger dug into the warm apple pie, oblivious to her silence. "They make the best pie here," he commented.

"Rodger, do you like me?" Della held her hands clenched in her lap, eyes downcast. She couldn't trust her temper if she looked at him.

"I told you last night I loved you," he reminded her.

"I didn't ask if you loved me. I asked if you liked me."

"Della, if I love you, I must like you. Use your head." He shoveled the last bite of pie into his mouth and pushed the plate toward the edge of the table.

"All right then, what do you like about me?"

"What has gotten into you? What kind of silly question is that?"

"Humor me. What do you like about me?"

Rodger made a big production of lighting a cigarette, arranging the ash tray, the cigarette pack, and his coffee cup to his liking before answering. "You are extremely attractive."

"Thank you. What else?"

"You have nice legs and pretty eyes. Your voice is pleasant, and you certainly can hold a conversation. Although there are times, like now, that I have no idea why you say the things you do."

She lifted her pretty eyes to meet his. "If I wasn't attractive, would you like me?"

He stubbed out his cigarette with quick, short stabs. "For crying out loud, babe, what is it with the third degree? You're picking up bad habits from that boss of yours."

"Would you like me if I wasn't attractive?"

"You are attractive, and I do like you. Can't you be satisfied with that?" He lit another cigarette and puffed on it with quick, agitated breaths.

"I'm afraid not. Is there anything else you like about me?"

"You used to have gorgeous hair," he snapped.

Della sighed hugely and pulled a cigarette from the pack, twiddling it in her fingers while contemplating whether or not she actually wanted to smoke it. "Do you know what my favorite color is? If I prefer cats or dogs? How old I am?"

"I know what makes you scream and beg for more." He smiled at her with lazy salaciousness.

She felt her face flush again, a creeping loathing for Rodger overtaking her. "I can see this line of questioning will get me nowhere. Will you answer one question honestly?"

"If I do, will you stop asking?"

"Why did your wife have an affair?"

Rodger paid careful attention to stubbing out his second cigarette before answering. "In the years since we got married, Susan…changed. She wasn't the pretty girl who thought I hung the moon any more, but I still came home faithfully every night, still gave her everything she asked for. Then one night she told me that I didn't appreciate her, and she had to go elsewhere to be appreciated."

Della watched Rodger as he continued to play with the cigarette butt in the ashtray. "She got older," she said.

"She got flabby and lazy," he corrected. "I could hardly get my arms around her anymore."

"And I suppose you told her that?"

"I agreed to answer _**one**_ question."

Della shrugged. "Rodger, we can't look like we're twenty-two forever."

Rodger raised his eyes to her. The shorter hair did indeed make her look older, more sophisticated, her face transformed in a way he couldn't identify. Since his proposal at _Luigi's_ she had changed – she wasn't the girl he had fallen for and wanted for his wife. She was still beautiful, still achingly desirable, but he realized she harbored a stubborn streak beneath her calm exterior. He had just shed himself of one stubborn woman. He didn't have the strength to deal with another.

"No, but she doesn't have to look fifty when she isn't even thirty."

Sadness welled up inside Della for the obvious false pretense of her relationship with Rodger. He had no true affection for her because he didn't know her, and had no inclination to get to know her. He was looking for a pretty face, a pliable personality, a naiveté that she was quickly outgrowing. In another month she would surpass him in maturity, even though chronologically he was several years her senior. She thought she had chosen more wisely this time, that Rodger would be supportive and caring and interested in her as a person. There was a pang of regret, but no real pain this time as his true character crystalized before her. She slid to the edge of the booth seat and reached out to clasp his hand.

"Your favorite color is red, you like dogs, and you are thirty-two years old," she said. She released his hand and stood. "My favorite color is green, I prefer cats, and I am too damn old for you."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

A decided buzz traveled through the lobby of the office building as Della entered. She didn't notice the rubber-necking or pay attention to the whispering because she was preoccupied with presenting her altered appearance to the office staff and Mr. Mason. Evelyn, Janet, and even Louise at the diner had given the shorter cut ecstatic reviews, and she herself liked it, but after Rodger's negative reaction, she wondered what Mr. Mason's reaction would be – if he reacted at all.

This morning she had chosen to wear a slim pencil skirt, a simple blouse with a turned-up collar, and quirky gold dangle earrings her Aunt Mae had given her for Christmas. She thought she looked suitable to run Mr. Mason's office, as well as to appear in court with him as he had mentioned was his ultimate plan for her. With Rodger forever out of her life, she was determined to take this job with Mr. Mason as far as he would allow, to prove that she possessed skills beyond shorthand and typing. Oh, and let's not forget answering the phone.

After abandoning a spinelessly speechless Rodger at the diner, she had walked slowly home and sat on the couch for several hours trying to muster tears for yet another broken relationship. But no tears came for a man who had so shallowly admired her, who couldn't give her a simple hug when she needed it, who didn't understand why she wouldn't abandon everything she was for the honor of becoming his wife.

She tried to wallow in self-pity about the parade of annoying things that had happened to her recently, but the ingrained sensibility of her upbringing wouldn't allow it. None of the incidents had been tragic or truly damaging. She would find a way to deal with each one and emerge a better person, just as Aunt Mae had taught her.

So it was with confidence that she opened the office door to be greeted by a sharp gasp of surprise and then a squeal of approval from Gertie. When Mary and the temporary typist arrived ten minutes later, they too expressed their heartfelt positive opinions about her new look.

Della hummed a bit as she put coffee on to perk, then leaned her hip against the desk and flipped though the daybook in which she kept track of Mr. Mason's schedule, familiarizing herself with the day's appointments. Unexpectedly, the connecting door opened, and Mr. Mason entered her office. She turned quickly, startled by his early arrival.

They stared at each other for long seconds before Perry Mason slowly smiled at her. "It suits you," he told her. "Classy, but with just the right amount of sass."

Della felt her knees begin to wobble as she self-consciously touched the soft wave over her right eye. "I thought I needed a change," she said, suddenly shaky.

Mr. Mason took two steps toward her. "Della," he said quietly, "I know what happened."

To her mortification, a huge tear rolled down her cheek, and her body trembled visibly. She hadn't cried, not once, not over anything that had happened in the past few days. But a few simple words of kindness from her boss, from this larger-than-life, commanding man, and she could easily weep like a lost child.

One more step, and he was inches from her, taking the day book from her unsteady hand and tossing it on her desk. Then he did the thing she needed, the thing she had wanted so badly for days. He took her in his arms and hugged her.

She relaxed into the circle of his embrace, absorbing the strength of his concern for her. She had known him for such a short time, he was her boss, and deep down she knew this shouldn't be happening. But no one close to her, not Janet, not Evelyn, and especially not Rodger, had given her the one thing she craved: a simple hug.

Perry Mason felt Della's trembling ease as he rocked her gently, soothingly. Propriety be damned. She had so quickly transformed from a stunningly sophisticated woman into a vulnerable little girl that nothing could have kept him from gathering her to him in comfort. He could honestly argue that he needed a hug every bit as much as she did, and that holding his trembling secretary close comforted him more than it comforted her.

It was Della who ended the embrace, pushing at him gently, lifting her tear-stained face and smiling softly at him. "Thank you," she whispered. Her voice caught slightly and she lowered her eyes.

He cupped her face with his hands, using his thumbs to gently wipe tears from her perfectly sculpted cheekbones. "Thank _**you,**_" he countered in the same whisper. Stepping back from her, and crossing long arms over his impressive chest, he contemplated her with obvious approval. "We have a busy day ahead of us, Miss Street. I think you should accompany me to Mr. Laslow's preliminary hearing, and I also think we should drop in on Mr. and Mrs. Avery unannounced. What do you think?"

She crossed her arms to mirror his posture. "I think I'm very lucky to be your secretary, Chief" she replied.

"I'd argue that all the luck is mine, Della" he said with quiet feeling.

* * *

><p>Having Della in court with him was a life-altering experience. She organized and reorganized his notes throughout witness examinations, anticipated his thought processes, kept meticulous records of each testimony and piece of evidence admitted, and soothed his client's nerves when he knew she was nervous herself. She charmed everyone he introduced her to, and he was keenly aware of the admiring glances the judge sent her way throughout the hearing. Her presence at the defense table soothed him and kept his thoughts clear, and he had never felt more comfortable in a courtroom.<p>

From this day forward, he vowed not to step into court without Della.

Della was thrilled by every moment of the hearing, which Mr. Mason had warned would be mind-numbingly tedious. The Assistant District Attorney was woefully overmatched by Mr. Mason's superior courtroom skills, visibly cowed by his powerful and authoritative voice. She watched in fascination as he systematically dismantled the ADA's case. By recess, it was clear that the defendant would most likely not be bound over for trial, and the ADA must have come to that conclusion himself during lunch, because he rested his case shortly after court reconvened. Mr. Mason called two character witnesses to the stand, then rested his case. Following an abbreviated summation by the ADA and Mr. Mason's succinct argument to it, the judge determined without deliberation that insufficient evidence had been presented by the State, and banged his gavel in favor of the defense.

Della sat back in her chair, a bit disappointed that the case had been dismissed so quickly. She loved being in the courtroom, hearing Mr. Mason's shiver-inducing voice as he examined each witness, being a part of the justice process. She understood now why Mr. Mason was so highly regarded as a trial attorney, and was proud to be associated with him. She hoped he was pleased with her assistance during the hearing and would not regret inviting her to join him, because she wanted to spend as much time as possible in court.

While Mr. Mason conferred with Mr. Laslow and accepted expressions of gratitude from his family and congratulations from spectators, Della efficiently packed up notes and files in Mr. Mason's briefcase. She stood to the side of the defense table patiently while a number of men whom she could only assume were fellow attorneys gathered around her boss after the courtroom spectators had moved away. Her thoughts replayed scenes from the dismissed proceedings and she didn't pay much attention to the group's conversation until she realized Mr. Mason had called her name twice. She moved around the defense table to where he stood and was formally introduced to each man. The men included her in their spirited conversation, good-naturedly warning her about working for a so-and-so like Perry Mason for a few moments, then Mr. Mason announced that he had another appointment and excused himself. He grasped her elbow and piloted her from the courtroom, turning to her with a grin when they were out of earshot of the other attorneys.

"Don't listen to those clowns," he told her. "They saw how efficiently you kept me on track in court and are jealous."

"They should be jealous at how efficiently you dispatched the People's case," she demurred.

"Our client should never have been arrested. There was no substantial evidence, no witnesses, nothing. The police were pressured to arrest someone, and Mr. Laslow was a convenient scapegoat because of a few missteps in his past." He pushed open the heavy outer door and stood aside for her to precede him into the bright sunlight of early afternoon. "So, tell me what you thought of your first day in court."

"Would I sound like a gushing teenager if I said I absolutely loved it?" He had once again taken possession of her arm and was carefully supporting her as they descended the wide concrete steps of the courthouse.

He glanced at her sparkling eyes with amusement. "I've said all along you and I were going to get along. I'll tell you a secret from one gushing teenager to another: I absolutely love it, too. And it can only get better now that you'll be there to keep me focused."

"I always thought the courthouse would be a scary place," she continued, a slow warmth creeping across her cheek at his pronouncement. "But it's regal and solemn, yet completely exhilarating at the same time."

"That it is. And now that you've have a taste of what a judicial proceeding is really like, does it change your mind about preferring charges against the woman who cut your hair?"

It was such an unexpected question, so out of place with everything that had preceded it that she came to a halt on the second-to-the-last step and jerked her arm from his grasp. "I see I should have asked you earlier how you knew about my hair," she commented, her voice suddenly cold and wary. He had been right. He would make her ten degrees of angry.

He instantly regretted his tactic. He should have stuck with his earlier instincts and trusted her to tell him if and/or when she was ready. "I'm sorry, Della. Forget that I brought it up."

"No, you can't unring that bell, Chief. Just how did you find out?" If he knew about the assault on her, what else did he know?

Perry Mason hesitated, torn between being honest with her and risking his professional integrity, or telling her an untruth and risking his personal integrity. Concluding that the two were inseparable when it came to Della, he sighed and looked Heavenward as if for guidance. "Paul Drake stumbled across the police report. He read it to me over the phone Saturday morning."

She was standing one step up from him, which brought her almost eye-level with him. Her face was flushed and he watched while she battled conflicting emotions. "And I suppose you had him investigate me," she concluded dully. Her wonderful day, beginning with the hug she had so desperately needed and ending with the excitement of court, disintegrated before her eyes. The sun, which had been so bright and warm mere seconds ago, couldn't penetrate the sudden cold that enveloped her.

Impulsively he reached for her hand. It was icy. "No," he denied. "He offered, but I turned him down."

Della let him hold her hand, oblivious to the curious stares of courtroom personnel who recognized the imposing presence of Perry Mason but not the slender young woman whose hand he held so imploringly. "I want to believe you," she told him, an edge of desperation in her voice. Walking away from her job, from Perry Mason, would be the event that broke her.

"You can, Della. I promise to always be honest with you." His eyes were a startling blue in the sunlight as he made his promise, holding her gaze with desperation that matched hers.

"It was Margaret Singleton," she announced. "I don't want to press charges. She did it, it's over, life goes on."

The identity of her attacker was a crushing blow to Perry Mason. As a result of her association with _**him**_ she had been assaulted, not because of her relationship with Rodger Eastlund. Because he had hired Alice Singleton and been blind to her activities with Jeanne Getty, Della had been exposed to potential harm. And he had added fuel to Margaret Singleton's anger by writing a letter that shifted complete responsibility to Della for firing her daughter. He didn't deserve her. She would be better off working for someone else, someone who wasn't such a clod.

"It's not your fault," Della said with eerie intuitiveness. "It was my decision to fire Alice. Her mother is obviously a bit deranged, but I don't believe she'll try anything else. She spoke to me. She knows I can identify her." She smiled briefly, without humor. "Besides, good things came from what she did. I lost ten pounds of hair as well as a hundred and eighty-five pounds of dead weight."

The import of what she said lifted his spirits visibly. Rodger Eastlund was no longer in the picture. He needed to let her know what that meant to him. "Miss Cavanaugh left for Denver this morning."

She cocked her head slightly to the side. "Are you okay with that?"

He was still holding her hand, which had warmed considerably. "I'm okay. It was long overdue. Are you okay without a hundred and eighty-five pounds of dead weight?"

"Perfectly okay." She squeezed his hand and he released his grip. She stepped down to the pavement and turned back to him. "And next time you talk to Paul Drake, tell him that Rodger Eastlund's divorce was finalized Friday."

He was grinning broadly as he followed her across the sidewalk and into a waiting taxi.


	18. Chapter 18

_Well, here it is finally, the end of my saga of how Perry unloaded Laura and how Della untangled herself from Rodger. Thank you all for being patient and reading and commenting while each chapter was edited between family weddings, birthday celebrations, fall bird migration, a new job, and my team's unbelievably exciting run for the pennant. - D_

Chapter 18

Ronald and Raylene Avery were surprised and pleased that Perry Mason and Della Street dropped by unexpectedly. Mrs. Avery fussed about the untidiness of the old-fashioned but spotless living room, barking orders at her husband to straighten accent pillows on the sofa and close the magazine he had been reading. She insisted upon serving snacks, declaring that her English grandmother had served tea at about this time of day, and bustled herself into the kitchen to "lay out" a plate of sweets. Ronald Avery clucked to himself and indicated two side chairs for Mr. Mason and his secretary to seat themselves. Della surreptitiously removed her steno notebook from her purse and tucked it between her leg and the arm of the engulfing wing chair, just in case. Mr. Mason had been frustratingly close-mouthed about this surprise visit, choosing instead to parry her inquiries with a bit of teasing and stories about the attorneys she had met in court as the taxi deposited them in the parking garage so he could drive himself to the Avery home.

Ronald Avery leaned forward, swinging his oversized head from side to side, satisfying himself that his wife was out of hearing range. "You must follow my lead in what to eat," he said urgently. "Raylene fancies herself a good cook, but bless her heart, she can't boil a decent egg."

Perry Mason smiled and shot a glance at Della, who merely raised her eyebrows smugly.

Raylene Avery returned shortly with an ornate tray laden with a china tea pot, delicate pink tea cups, and a matching platter upon which had been arranged a multitude of cookies and little cakes. "Those women Ronnie works for brought over so much food we can't possibly eat it all," she chattered. "I don't understand why they brought food at all. Ronnie hardly eats anything." She patted his knee affectionately. "I'm afraid he'll blow away in a stiff breeze."

Della carefully watched what Ronald Avery selected and duplicated his choices exactly. She noticed that Mr. Mason purposely selected items in defiance of their client's warning, and sat back with an amused smirk at the expression on his face when he bit into a slice of what could have been banana bread that crunched.

They passed a few moments idly discussing nothing in particular, until Perry Mason set his plate down on the oval Queen Anne coffee table and leaned his arms on his knees, eyes slightly brooding and remorseful.

"Mrs. Avery, why did you kill Wilson Garners?"

Della nearly choked on her tea as Ronald Avery gasped audibly and dropped his plate of sweets, which broke into two pieces as it made contact with the edge of the serving tray. "Mr. Mason, how dare you come into our home and accuse my wife of something like that?"

"Because he was going to ruin Ronnie," Raylene Avery replied in a steady, matter-of-fact voice. "Ronnie is a nervous soul, always has been. Mr. Garners was using Ronnie's disposition against him, setting him up as a fall guy to cover up for his rotten son." She sat perfectly upright on the sofa, hands clasped in her lap, her considerable size incongruous next to the bird-like physique of her twittery husband.

"Raylene!" Ronald Avery screamed, two pitches above his normal voice. He jumped to his feet and ran to stand behind Della's chair.

Raylene Avery regarded her husband with sad, adoring eyes. I don't blame you for running away from me, Ronnie," she said. "I didn't mean to kill him. He just wouldn't listen to reason. I told him about the baby, how we've dreamed of having a family for so long, and how he was destroying our miracle. He laughed. He said his son meant more to him than the son of an insignificant man like Ronnie. There was a fancy engraved knife on the edge of his desk. I picked it up and jabbed him with it. He collapsed to the floor, clutching his chest, and I walked out of his office. I called the police from a phone booth and tossed the knife into a street drain somewhere."

Della had opened her notebook and begun making frantic pothooks on the blank page, the words she was hearing automatically transcribed by her stunned brain and transmitted to her hand. Raylene Avery killed Wilson Garners? She was having a baby? Preston Garners embezzled the money from his father's company?

"Raylene," Ronald Avery breathed.

Raylene Avery turned to Perry Mason. "Would you drive me to the police station? Ronnie doesn't drive."

* * *

><p>Della had been waiting in Mr. Mason's car just shy of one hour, parked at the curb outside of Police Headquarters. The ride from the Avery house had been sad and silent, except for Ronald Avery's quiet sobbing and a slight slapping noise as Raylene Avery patted her husband's hand occasionally. When Mr. Mason looked at her inquiringly as he assisted Mrs. Avery from the car, Della had shaken her head, preferring to remain alone in the car and let the highs and lows of the day settle around her.<p>

She went over everything she knew about Mr. Avery's case and couldn't for the life of her figure out why Mr. Mason had decided to drop in on the couple this afternoon, how he had decided that Mrs. Avery had stabbed Wilson Garners. He was a challenge, nakedly honest one moment, tight-lipped and secretive the next as he wrestled with his thoughts. She realized that as little events had piled up in her life, Mr. Mason had been battling his own pile of events, as well as keeping a handle on the legal fates of his clients. He had made it clear he wanted her to remain in his employ, and she felt guilty about her earlier dramatics and the worry she had caused him.

Sixty-one minutes after leaving her in the car, Mr. Mason reappeared and slid behind the wheel wearily. She remembered how tired he had looked the night of Mr. Avery's detention, and was shocked that he looked every bit as weary now.

"Do you have any plans for the evening?" he asked, starting the car.

"No."

"Would you take a drive with me? I'll buy you dinner." He eased the big car into traffic.

"I'll stay as long as necessary. You don't need to bribe me with food."

He smiled but did not take his eyes from the road. Two blocks from Headquarters he suddenly pulled over and jumped from the car without a word, returning in a few minutes with a box tied with string, which he handed to Della. "For later, if you get hungry," he explained.

She set the box on the seat between them and studied his profile as he skillfully piloted the car through the congested streets of Los Angeles in an easterly direction. At the outskirts of town he headed north, and she settled back to enjoy the barren landscape so different from metropolitan Los Angeles.

Twice his hand crept across the seat in search of hers for a quick squeeze of reassurance, and then retracted to once again grip the steering wheel. She rolled down the window and breathed deeply of the late afternoon air, letting the breeze ruffle her hair, releasing curls from the carefully arranged waves. She didn't notice that he took his eyes off the road momentarily to smile at her.

Nearly two and a half hours later, outside of Barstow, he slowed the big car and pulled off on a side road not much more than a two-track. He killed the engine, heaved a sigh, and opened the door.

Della let him be alone for a few moments before opening the passenger door and making her way over the parched ground to where he was leaning against the car, staring at the edge of the Mojave Desert.

"I couldn't breathe in Los Angeles," he admitted, still not looking at her. "You can breathe out here and clear your head."

"It's wonderful. I've never been to the desert."

He looked at her then, incredulously. "You live in California and you've never been to the desert?"

She laughed. "I've only lived in California for a year. My aunt has a house in Bolero Beach and doesn't like to stray too far from the water. I don't have a car, so I've been reliant on public transportation or the kindness of friends with automobiles, who prefer the beach as well."

"I'm glad I've broadened your horizons."

She joined him in leaning against the car, drinking in the warmth and dryness of the clear desert air. "What will happen to Raylene Avery, Chief?"

He didn't answer immediately. "I'm going to represent her," he said quietly. "She's forty-one years old and pregnant for the first time. They've been married for eighteen years. Wilson Garners threatened her miracle and she reacted to protect her dream."

"How did you know it was her?"

"She mentioned the anonymous phone call that day she came to the office. The police didn't release that bit of information, and requested that I keep it quiet. If I had been doing my job properly, I would have caught it immediately. The police would have figured it out eventually and botched the job of arresting her. I'm glad I could make it peaceful."

"It's so sad. What about the knife she used?"

He snorted. "Paul Drake had been hearing about some explosive piece of evidence the police were working on. Turns out the knife was a gift from his son, a hunting knife he'd had engraved with his father's name. Some kids found it in a drainage culvert and turned it in. Young Garners was afraid he would be accused of the murder if it became clear he was the embezzler. He didn't admit giving his father the knife until confronted with signed affidavits from the store clerk and the engraver."

"I'm glad you've agreed to represent Mrs. Avery," Della told him.

"So am I," he answered. "I'm hungry. How about you?" He opened the car door and reached for the box. Inside was a large sandwich, a crunchy dill pickle, and an apple. He opened the thick paper wrapped around the sandwich, and handed Della half. "Hope you like roast beef and horseradish."

"Just about my favorite thing on earth," she replied.

* * *

><p>The ride back to Los Angeles wasn't quite as quiet as the trip to the desert. Perry turned on the radio and they chatted aimlessly about nothing in particular, occasionally about pending cases, sometimes about the passing scenery, rarely about the events of the past few days.<p>

He found himself watching Della, struck anew by her beauty, by her graceful movements. Her nimble mind and wicked humor fascinated him, and he let her talk without interruption often, simply enjoying the sound of her voice. By the time the lights of Los Angeles were visible, conversation waned to an unselfconscious silence intruded upon all too quickly by the noisy activity of the city. Della rolled up her window and smiled at him.

"I don' know if I'll ever get used to the noise," she admitted.

"I've lived here for several years and I'm still not used to it," he told her. "That's why I need to escape to the desert every once in a while. But I wouldn't want to live anywhere else. There is a liveliness to Los Angeles that isn't present in any other city."

"I've heard New York is pretty lively," she commented.

"New York is hectic. Los Angeles is simply alive."

Della nodded in complete understanding. "I lived my entire life in a small town with virtually no palpable pulse. I wanted more than white picket fences, church picnics, and waiting for a new movie to be booked into the local theater every month." She laughed a trifle nervously at exposing a glimpse of her life before moving to Los Angeles. "I guess most small-town girls dream of a more exciting life. I was fortunate enough to make that dream a reality."

"Don't you think one day you'll pine for those church picnics and picket fences?"

Della stared out the window as neon signs flashed by. "Possibly. But right now I'm happy to be exactly where I am."

"I'm happy you're here, too," he said.

She smiled. "You're very nice."

"No one's ever accused me of that before."

She laughed, which made him smile. "I won't tell anyone. It'll be our little secret."

He turned the big car onto the boulevard where her apartment house was located, and his mood deflated. In a few moments he would deposit her at her door and head back to his own apartment, to a silence not as electrically charged as that shared with Della, to the stark reality of life without Laura, to private thoughts about forty-one year old pregnant women who committed murder to protect life-long dreams.

But that was why he had decided to remain in Los Angeles – to find his way without Laura, to defend the Raylene Avery's of the world, but mostly to share those companionable silences with Della.

She handed him the keys to her apartment after a quiet ride up four floors in the elevator, each lost in thoughts they couldn't or wouldn't verbalize. He unlocked the door and stood aside. The desert wind had tousled her short hair into soft curls and he brushed one errant lock from over her right eye. "I already can't remember what you looked like with long hair," he said, and pressed gentle lips to her forehead near the part in her hair. He turned and walked briskly toward the elevator before she could slap him.

"Chief," she called after him.

He waited a beat before turning to face her.

"I'm sorry about Miss Cavanaugh. But I'm very glad you decided to stay in Los Angeles. Raylene Avery needs you." She slipped inside her apartment and closed the door.

Perry Mason smiled as he stepped into the elevator, his mood no longer quite as deflated.

* * *

><p>Her middle name was Katherine.<p>

Her birthday was in April.

Her telephone number was now committed to his memory.

She liked roast beef and horseradish sandwiches and was willing to fight nearly to the death for a deli dill pickle.

Shared silence with her in a car was more satisfying than any conversation he had ever had with anyone any where.

He closed the personnel file labeled "Street, D. K." he had removed from the cabinet earlier that morning and opened another labeled "Singleton, A. M." while pulling the phone closer. He dialed the number listed and when a sleepy voice answered he nearly hung up. But the thought of Della looking over her shoulder even once in fear of her safety overrode sensibility.

"Mrs. Singleton? Perry Mason. I apologize for phoning so late and awakening you. I wanted you to know that Della Street doesn't intend to press charges for what you did to her. But Mrs. Singleton, if you come within ten feet of her ever again,**_ I_** will press charges on her behalf and you will have to deal with me personally." He listened for a moment. "I'm not threatening you, Mrs. Singleton. I'm telling you what will happen if you don't stay away from my secretary...Go ahead and call the police, Mrs. Singleton. I'm sure they will be very interested in where you were Friday night. Good-bye." He hung up the phone, closed Alice Singleton's personnel file and placed it along with Della's in the hidden pocket of his briefcase.

He then picked up a scrap of paper from the telephone table and stared at it.

A new Denver telephone number.

He folded the scrap of paper, opend the drawer of the table, and placed the folded scrap beneath his address book.

This was not a telephone number to be committed to memory.


End file.
